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Journey to the Depths, Day One:
The sun shone on the first day of our journey. "A good sign!" I told the crew. "Auspicious!" But they ignored my good cheer, trudging grimly onward along the path winding deep into the forests. Not even an offer of a song managed to shake off their gloom. I fear I am already failing in my role as bard.
And yet! There is no room for despair on such a grand quest. Beyond the forest lays our goal: the crumbling ruins of the old fortress Caesteleshamm. I have tried plying the crew with tales of the place: a craggy stronghold set on a cliff right at the edge of the sea's gaping maw! a crown of a keep sitting over a labyrinthine network of underground caves! Their indifference baffles me. When I launched into an account of the most fascinating aspect of Caesteleshamm--the legend that it hides within its caverns a mythic Seat of Power which grants power over the land and seas--I was not met with the dramatic "Ooooooooohs!" I expected, but rather with a well-aimed pine cone thrown directly at my forehead with surprising force.
I suppose I may be expecting too much from a band of mercenaries. Journeys like this must be everyday occurrences for them. And unlike me, their motivation is purely the gold on offer. Our party is composed of several mercenaries from the fabled Players: three silent and dour drow, and a handful of human warriors and rogues. We take with us no pack animals, but only such supplies as we can carry about our persons. We shall soon reach the opening to the system of caves where our reward waits in the silent deep, and no mule or pony would be able to navigate their labyrinthine corridors. In addition to the fighters, we have me--a bard--and a mysterious man who appears to be some kind of mage.
The mage troubles me. He is strangely, almost inhumanely tall, with ivory hair and a petrifying scowl. I almost wonder if he has some giant or cave troll blood. Yet he is clearly intelligent, and commands the grudging respect of even the most forbidding drow. His draping cobalt robes show that he is wealthy, and he has an air of power about him. I cannot imagine why he would join such a motley crew as ours. I genuinely cannot remember what his role is, or how the Lord of Caesteleshamm recruited him to join our party. That is deeply troubling. I of anyone should know why he has joined us. Yet of course as a 'simple bard' I cannot ask the questions which I desire. I have noticed him watching me. Or perhaps he watches the Suvarnashirah.
For this is my true role in the mission, bearer of the mysterious golden orb that will guide us to the Seat of Power. The Suvarnashirah was long thought a mere children's tale, but the intelligent and enterprising Lord of Caesteleshamm managed to track it down! Its connection to the Seat of Power is mysterious, yet I have faith all will be revealed once we enter the caves. Of course such a prize could not be trusted to a mercenary, no matter how well-trained. No, it needs a nobler, more trustworthy guardian. I bear it in a pouch slung over my shoulder, next to my lute. I wish I had put more effort into learning to play it before setting out. It looked so easy... I have been humbled to discover that enjoying music and being a musician are very different things.
Journey to the Depths, Day Two:
The woods grow darker. The air now smells of sea salt. Tomorrow, we will reach the ruins of Caesteleshamm.
The old stronghold sits on rocky ground looking out over the cold and merciless seas. Built above a system of subterranean caves, the castle exists as much underground as it does above. It is said to be a remarkable structure, lofty and grand, far larger than the current small country seat of the Earl of Caesteleshamm. But generations ago, it was utterly abandoned. Evacuated so quickly, according to accounts I have read in dusty libraries, that plates of food were left at the tables, clothing left in chests. People simply fled. From what, I have no way of knowing. Yet it must have been something truly horrifying to make them abandon such a strategically valuable location, such a luxurious stronghold... I admit, my curiosity to see inside the old ruins is intense.
I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot with the other members of the party. I introduced myself to the party as Alexander "Shakey" Horne, a nickname that I felt conjured images of the life of the party, someone so accustomed to debauchery that he would shake in the mornings until he slaked his thirst for ale. To my dismay, the others have decided I earned this nickname because the sound of my singing makes them want to shake me. Which several of them have done. Quite vigorously. The others have questioned whether a bard is needful on our journey. "Needful!" I scoffed. "Is it needful to have good cheer, rousing shanties, laughter and joy on our way?" I was disheartened to hear them answer a resounding 'no'. But I reminded them that music is medicine for the soul, and that I would be recording their acts of bravery for posterity. Unfortunately this was mis-heard as 'recording for posterior', and the conversation devolved into some truly childish imitations of flatulence until the mage called for silence.
I shudder to think what dishonours I would be enduring were it not for the mage. He has turned out to be the most charming man I have ever met. He has endless questions for me about my knowledge regarding Caesteleshamm and the seat of power. Out of the entire party, he is the only one to show appropriate interest in and reverence for the Suvarnashirah! The others are as taken with him as I am. He has a story for every occasion, stories so lively and engrossing that even the drow stop threatening me with their obsidian daggers when he begins to recount one. He has the entire party eating out of his hand. I have never seen the like. Clearly it was wrong of me to question his presence... I'm sure his role in the party is of the utmost importance. Who am I to be suspicious of such a man? My concerns seem to have blown away in the salt sea breeze.
A new concern has taken their place, however. Several members of our party, myself included, have begun complaining of headaches and confusion. A fog seems to have settled in our minds. The mercenaries fumble their arrows when hunting, and cannot remember how to bait a hook to fish in the streams. As a result our food has been meagre, which only redoubles our troubles. Hah! At least I can still rhyme. I must keep a cheery disposition. And I must keep my eyes on the Suvarnashirah and my mind focused on our ultimate goal.
Day Three: The Descent
We reached the cave system slightly after mid-day. The drow, with their experience living underground, will be our main guides from here. We now follow a rocky path leading downwards through a winding series of sea-scoured caverns. As soon as I stepped across the threshold into the caves, I felt a sudden warmth on my back. Opening my sack, I saw that the Suvarnashirah had begun to glow gently. The Mage–I think he’s a mage?--looked on my joy at the sight with a look that was half hunger, half delight. He continues to be my best student on the subject of the ruins, the seat, and the golden orb. Today he asked me if I knew what it meant, the name Suvarnashirah. "Sanskrit", I replied immediately, "for golden head." He smiled, a cold, predatory smile. I quickly tried to cover my mistake. Not that there was any mistake about the meaning of the name, of course. I would never let such a detail slide. But it was a mistake to betray my knowledge, since a simple bard like me shouldn't know ancient languages. I’ll have to be more careful. Perhaps I'll tune up the lute over the evening fire to re-establish my cover. I'll admit, there is no performance or falsehood needed to embody a bard's love of a good quest.
Excitement! Adventure! Headaches and confusion continue.
Day: Uncertain
I've lost track of the days, yet this is the least of my many and pressing concerns. The mental fog that has afflicted our party for some days now has lifted from everyone. From everyone, that is, except me. The mercenaries are full of vigor and good cheer. The drow, pleased to be back below ground, have become as happy as is possible for their kind, even beginning to sing on our long daily marches. Which--had I known how desperately dour a drow marching song was, I would have been even more hurt by their disdain for my lute playing. The lute is gone. Burned, I think? In a cook fire? My memories blur. I can pull back snatches--endless caverns, the mage's face flickering in the light of the golden orb, the warriors teasing and pushing me into shallow pools. A deep, creeping terror lays over these scraps of memory. I feel... helpless. In this horrifying place, in the hands of such ruffians.
The mage... the mage helps, but I do not take comfort any more from his presence. Some animal instinct deep within me warns not to trust his smiles. He is by turns merciless and strangely kind. When the others torment me--by handing me animal feed instead of rations, or attempting to tie me to spires of rock--the mage scares them off. Yet he will not meet my eyes. I found myself wandering around without trousers on at one point. I think the other party members are stealing them in my confusion. The mage returned them to me, for which I was grateful, but his air was brusque and contemptuous. "For God’s sake, you pitiful fool," he spat. "Clean yourself up." I do not know what to make of his attentions. While he cannot look me in the eyes, he cannot tear his own eyes away from the Suvarnashirah, which now throbs with an unearthly light so blinding it seeps through my sack.
My waking life has become dreamlike, and my dreams have become strangely vivid. In them, I am encircled by tentacles, probing my face, tightening around my throat. The dreams are so real that I find myself running my fingers over my flesh, expecting to feel the marks left behind by clinging suction. Yet these dreams are not nightmares. They are strangely compelling, almost pleasurable. I long to return to sleep to feel them once more.
I expect that I will continue to struggle as we descend. No matter. We go deeper. Soon we will reach the Seat of Power and our long journey will end.
Day: Irrelevant
Today I awoke to absolute devastation. The Suvarnashirah is missing, as is the mage. Clearly the man absconded with it. Clearly we must pursue him and reclaim the golden orb. Yet nobody is taking my concerns seriously. And why should they, since they know me as a simple-minded bard? I beg and I wheedle, I stop short of bribing them with double their pay, but the drow have decided to plow ahead regardless. It seems they believe reaching the seat of power will give them control of Caesteleshamm. But that’s wrong. I know that's wrong, my research says so. I wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of finding that damned mystical orb if it wasn’t absolutely-–
There are noises in the caves. I tell the others, and they mock me. They say my mind is gone, that I am like a canary intoxicated with bad air. But I know what I hear. The smack and slither of tentacles on rock.
Third Day of Captivity
Thank the gods, my mind has cleared. For the first day in who knows how long I have my wits about me and can see my situation clearly. Unfortunately, my situation could not be more desperate. I sit in the only dry corner of a primitive prison cell hollowed out from the rock, chilled to my very bones. Before me lies a gruesome sight: a great pool of black water, punctured by cruel and jagged spires of rock, churning sluggishly with the squirming roll of what appear to be swarms of larvae. Or rather, with what I know to be swarms of larvae. As my intelligence returned, it became clear to me exactly what our captors are: Ithilids.
I had read tales of these squid-like abberations in my studies: of their worship of the Elder Brain, of their parasitic incubation in the minds of human and drow, of their Mindflayers, capable of draining all thoughts from your brain with lethal psionic force. I had always found them oddly compelling, horrifying though they are. And yet now that I meet them face to tentacled face... there's something wrong here. There is no question that they are true ithilids. They tower much taller than both humans and drow, peering down at us with cruel eyes set deep in pale flesh. Their faces end in writhing masses of tentacles, with yet more slimy appendages swirling out from beneath their robes. Their overall form is otherwise human, but the unnatural length of their long-nailed fingers and their shambling gait would betray them even if their faces did not.
Yet my readings had described ithilids as proud and powerful, committed to their leaders and merciless to those who did not conform to the rigid rules of their societies. The ithilids patrolling the cave, in contrast, seem sullen and distracted. I have been watching them since I came to consciousness in this cell, and have seen them squabble with each other, deceive their masters, and sometimes slump against the wall in seeming exhaustion. At one end of the chamber sits what I assume is the Seat of Power we have sought at such dire cost. Yet again, things are not as I anticipated. The seat should be gold. It should be crackling with psionic power. Instead, it looks like dull, grimy iron. In it slumps an ancient ithilid who struggles even to breathe and hold himself upright, but whom the others defer to as leader. I cannot imagine why. He seems sadistic and capricious, enforcing horrifying punishments on what followers he has left for the smallest offense. On my first day of awareness, I saw him feed a guard who had offended him into the murky black waters of the pool, where the larvae quickly swarmed over him, muffling his screams. He did not surface. His desperate howls still echo in my head.
Early in my imprisonment, one of the human members of my party suddenly clasped the bars of my cell, begging for help. It seems the mercenaries have been put to use as labour drones. The ithilids feed on their minds slowly day by day, confusing their senses and weakening their will until they become pliable workers. When I expressed my confusion about how I was meant to help from within a cell, the mercenary wept openly and fought fruitlessly against the guards who came to drag him back to his task. The next day, he ceased weeping. Now, he no longer fights. He stands by the pool with a twisted stick of driftwood, mechanically stirring the murky depths with a look of utter blankness on his face. While his condition grieves me, I cannot help but wonder... why am I alone spared? Why have my thoughts returned to me, when those of my travel companions are being slowly consumed?
Fourth Day of Captivity
Today I received answers to my questions when I was hauled from my cell and thrown to the ground before the corrupted Seat of Power.
"Where is the Suvarnashirah?" demanded the ithilid leader. Despite my protestations that the golden orb had been stolen from me, he simply repeated the question, pinning my face to the slimy rocks with one thick and unctuous tentacle. When I began shouting in frustration, the guards struck me with a cruel iron rod. "This is Tomasz, Child of Mirth, guardian of the Elder Pool," I was instructed. "You will speak respectfully."
Eventually, I managed to ascertain that my brain had indeed initially been slated for slow consumption along with the rest. However, when the ithilid feeding on my thoughts saw that I have knowledge of the Survarnashirah, my value to their people increased and I was promoted from fodder to prisoner.
"You will help us find the head," the Child of Mirth slurred. I assured him that I would, but pretended that my wits were still scrambled. "I will share what I know willingly," I assured him, "but I fear that my mind is so weak that if you try to take the information by force it will collapse and leave you with nothing." To my surprise he agreed with my feeble lie. "Yes, I can see the marks of prolonged feeding when I taste your thoughts. Your mind is on the verge of collapse. Irah Verdir--I can taste his magic inside you." The guards dragged me back to my cell and threw me in. I sank to the ground, awash with relief that my life had been spared, if only for a few precious days. Yet now that my nerves have steadied, I am haunted by the question: who--or what--is Irah Verdir?
Sixth Day of Captivity: The Day of Reckoning
After so many weeks (I think it has been weeks?) of torment and uncertainty, my nerves are now abuzz with an unfamiliar feeling: hope. I still sit on cold rock. I remain a prisoner of the ithilid. Yet next to me now sits the source of my hope, his smiles and touches stoking the flames of optimism in my heart.
My fate turned for the better yesterday, when a most unexpected event took place: the mage appeared! Just as the Child of Mirth was about to lose all patience and suck my brain dry, guards burst into the chamber. Two struggled to control the handcuffed mage, and the third wielded the Suvarnashirah itself!
The Child of Mirth instantly released me, and I cowered before his iron throne. "Irah Verdir!" he exclaimed, suddenly showing more energy than I had seen him muster. "Our long struggle comes to an end." He wrung his long-fingered hands in nervous joy. "For you to return... and at a time of such weakness for you! Oh, this is too delightful."
I looked up at the mage from my place on the floor. His piecing blue eyes seemed to glow--no, they DID glow with an unearthly light I had not noticed before. I could see it, could see in his face that there was something else behind the human visage he projected. His face is still there, at least in my mind, but somehow beyond and around it I began to catch glimpses of his true face... of soft, firm alabaster flesh, of the smooth muscles moving under the surface of his tentacles, of his true and even more imposing height. He caught me staring openly, and for half a heartbeat a warm smile flickered across his alien face.
"You must have forgotten the lore in your long years away from the home caves," snarled the Child of Mirth. "The blood tides are coming. Your threat to my rule shall finally, truly be extinguished. What, have you nothing to say for yourself?" But the mage just stared back in silence with an intensity I have never before witnessed. With a cackle, the Child of Mirth ordered both of us thrown back into the cell. Cradling the Suvarnashirah in his lap, he stroked it lovingly with a flaccid tentacle.
The mage reclined against the stone wall, elegantly folding his long body into the tight quarters of the cell. "Lord Horne," he greeted me, bowing his head politely.
"Irah Verdir," I replied. "So. We know each other's true names."
A smile made the tentacles on his face ripple slightly. "Yes, but your human tongue cannot pronounce mine correctly. My name means 'watchful one' or 'overseer'... I believe the equivalent in your language is... Greg." He grimaced, as though the word tasted unpleasant.
"Greg," I echoed. "I did not hire you." Puzzle pieces began falling into place. When I had recruited the mercenaries--carefully, using a network of agents and middle men so that they would not recognize me as their employer--of course I had not added a mysterious mage to the party. "Why did I not notice..."
"I have certain... powers," Greg admitted carefully.
"You've been feeding on my mind." Rage began to flare inside me. How dare this creature endanger my quest. "That's why the Child of Mirth tasted your magic within me."
"Yes," was Greg's simple reply. Seeing no defensiveness, no manipulation in him, I paused. And so he began to explain.
Yes, he had been feeding on my mind. He had been feeding on everyone's mind. Partly to keep us all indifferent to his unexpected presence, and partly to sustain himself. "I had sought the Suvarnashirah fruitlessly for centuries. Imagine my shock and my pleasure when a little human managed to uncover the artifact which I could not." I objected that for a human, I am quite tall, and he reminded me that for an ithilid, I am not. "The Suvarnashirah has immense value for me. I planned to slowly drain the party on the march to the caves, then make off with my prize."
I frowned. "What happened?"
"You happened." He explained that while at first, he fed equally on all members of the party, he quickly developed a preference for the taste of my thoughts. "Your mind is... interesting," he said, a fire lighting within his cold blue eyes. "Different. The others are brutes but you thirst for knowledge. You have a library in your mind. And joy! So much joy. Your love of the ducks on your castle grounds, of strange fruits from overseas... Your mind is delightful." Against my own better judgment, I felt my anger begin to fade. I sank slowly to the floor next to him. He reached out one long tentacle from below his robes and firmly grasped my hand. Suddenly, I came back to myself.
"Wait!" I bellowed, shaking his tentacle off of me. "You're feeding on my mind again! This is part of your plan, to finish the job you started on the march!"
Greg was unmoved. "Observe your thoughts. Test your memories. Are you feeling the confusion you experienced before?" I paused. I had to admit I was not. "Your mind is clear now. You are fully under your own control. From the first day I fed on you, I tasted a liking for me. A warmth. It was unexpected--most, like the mercenaries, admire my apparent wealth and power. You alone seemed to like me for myself. Or at least, for the parts of myself you could see. It was addictive, that warmth. I fed on it until it infected me. I now feel a... a... a fondness for you that is alien to my kind." He spat the word out like poison. "I have become... sentimental." A thrill passed through me. He was right, I had liked him from the beginning. And now that I knew his true form, I admit that I was deeply pleased to have captured the attention of such a powerful being. To be the object of desire of an ithilid was a rare prize indeed. I placed my hand back on the tentacle I had shaken off moments before. He immediately encircled my wrist.
"May I..." he asked, and sent a jolt of warmth through my arm. I shuddered with pleasure to feel warmth after so many days shivering in my cell. "Actual warmth is beyond my powers, but I can give you the sensations of warmth and comfort. Without--" he added hastily, "doing any additional damage to your delightful mind." I nodded, and he wrapped me in a psionic blanket of bliss, quieting my growling stomach and smoothing away my aches and pains. I leaned happily against his chest, encircled by his arms, his tentacles moving in smooth loops around my legs.
And so we passed the day and night, exchanging information and devising a cunning plan. For you see Greg is the true leader of the ithilids. He should be the one in the seat of power, overseer of the Elder Pool, the only place where new larvae can grow to the maturity needed to shift to an organic host. Yet he thirsted too strongly for knowledge, learning magics forbidden by weaker ithilids in their fear of the unknown. Seeing an opportunity to grasp power, the Child of Mirth used this to turn the crowd against him and take the throne for his own. Greg was cast out by his own people. Or, by his own non-people, if you would. But the Elder Brain, an ancient sentience living deep within the pool, has rejected the Child of Mirth as a false ruler. And so ever since the coup the pool has rotted, the young have struggled to grow, the once proud and powerful ithilids have slid into decay.
Yet hope remains. Seeing the uprising coming, Greg cannily safeguarded his remaining larvae by placing them within the Suvarnashirah. "Normally, larvae mature in an organic brain," he explained. "In the head of a drow, or a human, who is slowly converted into a fully mature ithilid as the larvae knits its new form out of their body and mind. Mine were just reaching readiness to make the transition, but no acceptable hosts were available. And so I put them into a temporary incubator--a substitute for an organic brain, a kind of 'golden head' if you will." Hearing this, I felt as though my feet had been plunged into ice water, despite Greg's psionic warmth. I had thought the translation of 'golden head' had been a fanciful name denoting the knowledge to be gained by following the Suvarnashirah. It had never occurred to me that it contained living beings! I had carried Greg's young, Greg's golden head, right up to the home of his greatest enemy. I was horrified by my own stupidity. And then his tentacles squeezed firmly around me and I felt his understanding, his complete and unreserved forgiveness, that profound fondness that he both resented and delighted in.
"You could have escaped, you could have made off with the golden head," I murmured. "But you came back. For me." I hoped that he could feel my awe, my devotion and my gratitude as clearly as I could feel his warmth.
"Yes, and it would have been worth it even had I met my end in the Elder Pool, but I am particularly glad that you lured me into this cave," he replied. "In order to stay alive until I could restore my children to the pool and regain the Seat, I have used my arcane knowledge to drain other beings and extend the span of my life. I heard rumours that the Child of Mirth had done the same. Yet seeing him now, it is clear to me that his distrust of deep lore has prevented him from learning the correct magics. He is barely clinging to life, barely clinging to power. The moment I thought was the day of my greatest weakness has become a golden opportunity to regain my rightful rule."
The blood tides mentioned by the Child of Mirth arrive soon. They are the one time in the year when the Suvarnashirah can be destroyed. We cannot let that happen, and so we must act quickly, yet we have great hopes for victory. In many ways, we share a goal: to restore this once proud stronghold to its former glory. My ancestors once ruled Caesteleshamm, during the years when Greg and his forebears watched over the elder pool. My greatest hope has been to restore it--to leave the smaller keep I currently rule as Earl, where generations of my people have sat decaying, much as the Child of Mirth has sat decaying here below. Greg has told me many tales of the times before the great division, times when ithilids and humans lived in harmony here. Greg said it was when humans became too greedy, when they tried to take total control, that the rift between our peoples happened and Caesteleshamm fell to ruins. He said we can restore that great union and rule together from a single stronghold.
He said a great many things as his tentacles coiled around me, caressing my thighs, probing my mouth, drawing my hands and my hips into firmer and firmer contact with his cool, firm flesh. I found myself more swept up by his magnetism than ever before--this time more intensely, because I was able to turn the full attentions of my unclouded mind to his strength, his power. I found myself crying out in pleasure despite my appalling surroundings until a tentacle, grasping my face with a sucking protuberance, stole my breath from me. Cold blue eyes stared steadily down into mine as I surrendered myself to his touch.
The memories of last night still linger. As the cavern rouses itself for morning labour, my spirits rouse themselves as well. All will be well, for all is in His hands.
Coronation Day
The circumstances in which I find myself could not be more different than those in which I recently suffered. I have traded my worn travelling clothes for rich blue robes, my cell for a seat next to (and slightly lower than) the Seat of Power.
On the day after Greg proposed we rule as a united front, we set our plan into action. He pretended that He had drained me entirely. When the guards came in to remove my body and search my desiccated remains for any final scraps of useful knowledge, I smashed them in a delicate spot with a concealed rock. Perhaps not the most complex or chivalrous of plans, but it allowed Greg to slip outside of the bars of the cell, whereupon He used a final burst of arcane energy to move at unnatural speed around the perimeter of the cavern, catching the Child of Mirth off guard and wresting the Suvarnashirah from his dastardly clutches. On the verge of triumph, He was struck from behind by a cowardly spear of psionic energy mustered up in desperation by the weak and feeble usurper. The golden head tumbled from His grasp and rolled across the cavern floor. Seized by a burst of strength in my desire to see my Beloved's children grow to full strength, I shook off my captors and managed to connect with the orb with a desperate kick. My kick sent it flying into the pool where it smashed upon the cruel spires of rock, freeing His larvae to rejoin the Elder Pool.
The change was instantaneous and glorious. Crackling lavender bolts of psionic energy spread forth from the remnants of the orb, cleansing the waters of their turgid black rot. The larvae sent up a chilling collective scream of joy as they once again swam freely in jewel-like depths. As the ripples reached the edge of the pool, their currents of power touched the foot of the Seat of Power. The iron tarnish sloughed off in showers of brittle dust, revealing a shining golden throne with red velvet cushions, covered in carvings with all sorts of profound symbolic significance. As the seat transformed below him, so the Child of Mirth was also transformed. He howled as his body received the full force of centuries of aging in a matter of seconds, shriveling and deliquescing as he was reduced to a puddle of slime coating his suddenly threadbare and tattered robes.
The guards attempting to return me to my cell froze. Every being in the cavern froze. And then... it was as though the ithilids woke from a deep slumber. They looked around them, at themselves, at the Elder Pool. Consumed with disgust at what they had allowed themselves to become, some threw themselves into the pool or impaled their own soft bodies on the rocks. Others, of more steady dispositions, steeled themselves for the work ahead and began to rebuild the once-mighty caverns. They see, as I do, that the way forward is to submit to His merciful rule.
Greg, on His throne, is a most glorious sight. He commands the room, His piercing gaze ever watchful for the slightest slip. Once the cavern repairs were well under way, a group of ithilids was dispatched to explore the upper rooms of Casteleshamm as well. They found and carried down the great throne of my ancestors, and placed it next to the Seat of Power. It is smaller, and lower, but grand enough in its own way. Besides, as Greg reminds me, a little throne is the perfect seat for His little Lord Horne.
Today He will be crowned and a new era will begin. I have called my people back to their old home, to rebuild and to celebrate our new alliance. They are hesitant. No matter. With time, they will see the benefit of His guidance for both our civilizations. Greg has suggested some light use of psionic manipulation to smooth the path to reunification, a plan to which I heartily agreed. I know that they, like me, would reach the same conclusion voluntarily if given time. Why not speed them on their way?
And so we sit in our golden thrones, hearing the cheers of humans and the howls of ithilids rise above the splashing of larvae in the restored Elder Pool. Greg looks every inch a ruler: forbidding, aloof, powerful. Yet his tentacle slips around my ankle, and through it He reflects back to me my own memories of ripe melons and fresh eggs, feelings of warmth and that same fondness that so captured His heart.
Epilogue
It was hard to believe so many years have passed since we returned to Caesteleshamm. The larvae, His larvae, that once hid within the Suvarnashirah quickly matured and became ready for proper hosts. The mercenaries who accompanied me on my journey to the Seat of Power seemed obvious candidates. Each now hosts a young ithilid in their brain, and they become more and more like Him day by day. At times I feel pity for their lot, but He reminds me of their cruel treatment of me. "Besides, Sahayakam"--a pet name He has given me which He says means co-ruler in His ancient language--"they now serve a more glorious purpose than selling their bodies in fights for gold." It is good to see the children happy. They play in their splash pool near the foot of Greg's throne. The other larvae were more substantially weakened by their long time in the corrupted pool, but they will be ready for hosts soon. Greg says that in times past, the human rulers of Caesteleshamm provided hosts from among their criminals and enemy agents. I had not come across this in my readings, but I have every reason to trust my Karyasvaami (a pet name he tells me means 'beloved'). Besides, fear of falling into my disfavour and being repurposed as a host has proven a most effective incentive for encouraging my people to fully commit to rebuilding our shared home. It is as He foresaw: both kingdoms are flourishing now that they are properly united once more.
He wraps a muscular coil around my throat, and all of my worries subside in an instant. My confusion is gone, and I know my role. Everything I do, I do for Him.