The Memes of Aspan

by Robyn Blaber (November 2021)

Ongar Sarsen contemplated his options. He had died, or more accurately put, he had been killed in the middle of his research. His brother, Turar Sarsen, the Eldest Disciple of the Kizil Chantry of Jormungandr had changed that. Turar had come to gain a great understanding of the will of the gods and Jormungandr, a favorite of the Aydahar, in particular. With his divine power, Turar divined the power and influence over the gods to restore Ongar from his short experience with the afterlife.

A couple of months earlier, Ongar and his brother had each come into possession of one of the Memes of Aspan, the holy relics of the Aspanist religion. These Memes were said to have been safely in possession of the Aspanist clergy in the capitol ziggurat in the grand city of Anar. As legend has it, the Memes were perhaps the most safely guarded relics on all of Otan.

When the Great Erasure came, more than fifty of the set of sixty-four relics had gone missing. Not a soul in Otan seems to know how it happened. Speculators point a finger at the Aspan god Suu, who according to legend had delivered the Memes to the First Lotus or Aspan just over two centuries ago.

Because Suu’s actions went against the will of Aspan, it has been naturally assumed that Suu took it upon himself to further distribute the memes, not just among the people of the Caliphate of Ontustik, who are effectively born Aspanist, but to people across Otan.

Four of the Memes had turned up in Aydahar. One ended up in the hands of the Eldest of Aydahar, the supreme leader of the Aydahar Confederation. Another ended up in the hands of the clergy in Kara, down in southern Aydahar territory. The last two had fallen into the hands of himself and his brother Turar.

This turn of events was very unlikely. The Aydahar were as distant from the human race as any sapient race on Otan. They were specifically the comingling of human and dragon bloodlines. It was possible, though rare, for the seed of a dragon to infect a ripe ovum of a human female. The resulting birth would naturally be a creature from a mother’s nightmares, had that mother never met an Aydahar.

At least a dozen known variants of the Aydahar race came into being on Otan, most of which are identified by the nature of their draconic ancestors. Turar and Ongar were of the Kizil variety, bipedal with reddish skin and lizard-like snouts. They featured clawed hands and feet with scales down their backs, on their faces, hands, and feet. They also had tails, which were not of a prehensile nature, but rather an aid for flying, for those few Aydahar with enough dragon blood to sprout wings.

Why human gods would let their artifacts slip into the hands of these half-humans was decidedly a mystery if not a terrible affront to that religion. For anyone to fall into the possession of a Meme of Aspan, the question of what to do with such a powerful relic would become all-consuming.

Ongar and Turar had learned that these artifacts were loose and began various levels of research to discover their whereabouts. Turar had a head start with his own research. As a Disciple of Jormungandr, he could through magical means, seek clues from his god, Jormungandr. Jormungandr was the world snake and the patron god of all the Aydahar, and he did indeed give Turar many valuable clues.

Ongar, not wishing to be outdone by his brother, had no magical powers to speak of. He did not like the rigidly controlled life that the Disciples of Jormungandr had to endure. He might have become every bit as powerful a master of the might of the gods as his brother, but he did not.

Instead, he sought the attention of a little-known goddess, not known to any pantheon. Having learned that the relic he sought had a relationship with the Nether World, he began to make regular sacrifices to the goddess he thought most related to this region of the cosmos.

For most, the Nether World was only accessible through death and even then, through a death which was preceded by a very poorly lived life. One would have to commit many crimes against their fellow man to find themselves committed to the Nether World. It was not a place to aspire to.

Through magical means, one could speak to those whose souls had been sent to the Nether World. Through more powerful magical means, one could retrieve a soul from the Nether World complete with a fresh new body to inhabit. Neither of these acts, which might displease the gods, would have a hope of working if it displeased the goddess who ruled there. That goddess was Æski.

For those who claim to have seen Æski, describe her as a tall and powerful woman. They say she is beautiful, with dark blue flesh, and light blue eyes that flash red when she is angered. Her similarities to a human end there as giant bat wings affixed to her arms are stretched with blackened skin. Prominent black horns top her head and a scorpion-like tail protrudes from behind.

Despite this beastly description, those who gazed upon her in the afterlife, only to be returned, and those who have only seen her in visions uniformly describe her as the most beautiful creature they had ever laid eyes upon. Certainly, her followers who claimed to have gazed upon her accepted her word with a fervor that exceeded that of the most religious of any faith.

Æski had been fabled to intercede in human affairs very rarely, but most often when her followers were to find themselves in world-changing events. Legend had it that she would sometimes take direct vengeance on those who displeased her. More commonly though, she would assemble groups of her followers to take greater, longer, and more meticulous vengeance upon them.

Ongar had no interest in Æski, but he understood a means to an end. If he was going to use this relic, this Meme of Aspan to build a bridge to the Nether World, he would need allies on the other side. And so he prayed. He made sacrifice. He called Æski’s name.

One cold Kantar night, he fell into a dream state. He dreamed he could fly and he flew above Heaven and Otan, he flew below the waters and into the ground. He was a magical flying spirit unbounded by anything imaginable. He flew to the Nether World and there he stopped.

Perhaps he had been stopped, but he was suddenly unable to move. He looked about frantically, taking in the view of the Nether World. It was not as he had imagined it. “How could that be?” He wondered. “Am I not dreaming it?”

As he looked at the strangely contoured terrain, littered with piles of corpses here, and piles of what could only be excrement there, his senses were assaulted with the putrefaction that could only be the real thing. A dark angel descended from above, slowly filling his view. The noxious mephitis rising from the melange of rotting flesh and perhaps every malodorous thing ever imagined assaulted his sinuses and burned his eyes.

With a free hand, he wiped the tears from his eyes as the dark angel landed before him. She was indeed beautiful, but perhaps too frightening to earn his lust. She closed on him moving her face to inches within his own. She stooped, her size easily twice that of Ongar’s and nose to snout, she bellowed with a voice that quaked his soul. “What do you want?” She said.

Ongar had never really been asked what he wanted before. Ongar had never been this terrified before. Ongar had nothing to reply. What had he done? Had he died? He felt that he did not know anything at that moment. “I don’t know,” was all that he could squeak out.

Pulling out a short blade with one hand and digging the nails of her other hand into Ongar’s neck, she repeated. “What do you fucking want?”

Suddenly, Ongar was quite convinced that this was not a dream. He was certain that this was real and that he was about to be killed in and permanently condemned to the Nether World had he not been able to answer a simple question. What did he fucking want? Ahh… the relic, the power, all of that he wanted. Shit, he was about to die.

“I want a relic, dear goddess.” He was finally able to blurt out. He felt the claws retract slightly from his throat.

“The relic is a Meme of Aspan. I understand it has been loosed from its owners from the Aspanist temple. I wish to possess it. I wish to unleash its power. I wish to build a bridge from Otan to the Nether World. That is what I want, dearest Æski.”

The goddess’ eyes glowed. She loosed her grip on Ongar, sheathed her blade, and without another word, sailed into the dark sky. The dark world swirled all around Ongar. The blackness and bodies and severed limbs swirled around as his soul felt to be pulled out of the Nether World as if it were on a string. Up and up he went and then through the earth and ocean and back to his room and his bed where he sat up and screamed.

He jumped out of his bed and charged for the door. The smell of the Nether World was still with him. He emptied his stomach as soon as he crossed the threshold to the street. “What have I done?” He screamed as he clawed at his face as only the most distressed Aydahar do.

He fell to the cobblestone and cried. It was still dark and very cold outside. After about an hour, his distress, still unwitnessed had subsided. He returned to his home to brew up something warm to drink and contemplate what had just happened.

What did it mean to give up his soul to Æski, he wondered. Did he get information when he needed it? Would he be granted powers like his brother Turar? How does one even find out, he wondered further. There were no guides to pacts with the Nether World that he knew of.

He pulled out his knife and made a small cut in a finger on his left hand. With his right hand, he made a sign as he had seen his brother do. “Heal!” he commanded.

The finger did not heal. He commanded it to heal several more times. When it refused to heal, he bandaged it with a rag. He waved his hands around the room in the way he had seen his brother perform his acts of divinity.

He commanded things to rise. He commanded water to boil and wood to burn. Nothing. He then decided to complete his night’s sleep and consult with Turar the next day. Surely he would have some ideas on what to make of this divine intercession.

When he awoke, he quickly readied himself and headed out the door. The “out” part of his plan was impaired by some sort of beast, a riding lizard most likely blocking the door. Peering out the window, he could see it enjoying the contents of his stomach that he had expelled hours previously.

The only way to manage a beast was with persistence. He put his shoulder into the door, dug in his feet, and pushed. It was a full minute before he had managed to open the door a hands width. Keeping pressure on the door he tried to swat at the beast, which in turn would swing its tail causing him to lose the precious small advances he had made.

Eventually, the beast, now rolling its face in the spot where he had thrown up, had tucked its legs underneath itself and settled in the doorway for what Ongar could only assume would be a very long time. Rage filled him and he waved a hand through the small opening he had made, directing the words, “Fuck you!” at the beast.

Energy leapt from his fingertips and struck the beast’s haunches. The startled lizard roared in pain and sudden terror, bolting down the street. Almost as surprised as the beast, Ongar, gingerly felt his fingertips and marveled at the tingling sensation. What had he just done, he wondered.

With his head down, and his cloak wrapped tightly around him, he marched to the Chantry of Jormungandr. Acolytes accustomed to his visits greeted him at the door and rushed him into the warmth. “Blessings from the Infinite One,” they chanted more than spoke, their hands clasping their opposite forearms and heads bowed in reverence.

Ongar, almost from instinct, clasped his forearms and repeated. “Blessings from the Infinite One.”

Something felt wrong when he issued the blessing, however, as though the entire universe had changed. He doffed his cloak and gazed up at the gargantuan sculpture of the world snake circling the chantry overhead, its great wide jaws clenched upon its own tail. “Blessings to the Infinite One.” He said as he looked around for his brother.

Having wasted no time at the hearing of his brother’s arrival, Turar came rushing out to greet Ongar. “What brings you to visit on such a cold morning, my brother.” He said.

“Research, my brother! Glorious research. Let us waste no time, put a sacrificial offering onto the alter and I shall demonstrate.” Said Ongar.

Doing as his brother asked, Turar placed a large, juicy sasik beetle, an Aydahar delicacy, onto the alter. The beetle, still chewing on a honeyed morsel that it had locked in its jaws, remained still, ambivalent to what was going on around it.

Ongar approached the altar and shook his hand a the beetle. Nothing happened. He made a fist and shook it at the beetle. Then he stretched his other hand toward it as well. Nothing. He flexed out his fingers and pointed at the beetle, shifting them in various ways.

Turar, not knowing what was supposed to happen, looked perplexed. “Are you preparing to be eaten?” He asked.

Ongar frowned and raised a finger. “I can do this.” He explained. “Just give me a moment to remind myself how.”

With greater force now he punched in the air toward the beetle. He swatted at it with greater and greater ferocity. As sweat began to bead between the scales on his brow, he started to swear with his, feigned blows. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fa fa fa faaauck youuuu!” He began to shout in exasperation.

The acolytes within earshot looked about nervously in disbelief. The sound of conversation might be tolerated in the Chantry, but never should it overshadow the actual chanting, the continuous devotions sung to the Infinite One. Turar raised a hand to calm the acolytes as his brother continued his litany of curses toward the hapless beetle.

In mid expletive, it happened. Barely making it past the first vowel of his accursed magical words, bright magical energy sparked from his fingers. The bolt struck the beetle dead center, lifting it several inches into the air, and squirting juices as it cooked through before it fell.

Turar looked astonished as Ongar approached the altar, wiping one finger into the beetle juice and helping himself to a taste. “What have you done, my brother?” Turar asked.

“I have made a bargain, Turar.” Said Ongar. “We will not be stopped in our quest to wield the power of the Aspan relics. Soon even the Infinite One will take notice of our grandeur.”

Turar clasped his brother’s forearms who clasped his in return to form the holy symbol of infinity. “May the Infinite One protect us, my brother.” He said.

For the weeks and then months that followed this revelation, the two brothers continued to consult with their gods and hone their powers with the design of acquiring the Aspanist artifacts. They determined that one of the Memes of Aspan had certainly fallen into the hands of the Eldest of Aydahar. The latter had simply found the treasure in his hoard, somehow unable to recall if it had just appeared there or if he had always had it.

That relic would be quite out of their reach, for even with Turar’s prominence in the clergy, he wielded no true political power. Even with the key to unlocking the secrets of these relics, he would only be compelled to turn the secrets over to the Eldest. This might yield him a lesser treasure as a reward, but it would be far from his goal.

Ongar continued to hone his newfound magical abilities. With an absolute understanding that every spark of his powers came directly from Æski and her Nether World domain. Dauntless, he would venture into the wilderness, sometimes alone and sometimes with hunting parties to practice his magical prowess on prey, be it mundane or fantastical.

He learned that his connection to the Nether World had strengthened. Despite the lack of a bridge, that he could cross himself, he discovered that he could temporarily transport denizens of the Nether World to Otan. These shadowy beasts could inhabit his world anywhere from a few seconds to several hours.

They were not great conversationalists, though he could converse with them through mere thoughts alone. All of their thoughts reminded him of the smell of the Nether World. That aside, these shadow beasts represented great power, and when summoned to do his bidding, they would tear apart his prey upon command. Ongar became increasingly concerned that this power would come at a great price.

The month of Mawsim signaled that spring would soon come to an end. Turar had already learned that one of the Memes of Aspan had come into the possession of the Eldest Disciple of the Kara Chantry of Jormungandr, far to the south. Turar had previously met Elder Disciple Gulnur Olim, but they were not friends; the Aydahar possessed of the habit of concerning themselves only with those nearby.

It was shortly after receiving this news that a cataclysm had taken place. Waves of energy deep and ominous rippled through the sky. Ongar could see the ripples as clearly as he could see his own snout. The emanating energy gave him the same feeling that his own Nether World energy gave him. Without a doubt, he knew this energy was coming from the city of Kara. He was doubly certain that a Meme of Aspan was involved in this event.

Had the cataclysm been limited to ripples in the sky, Aydahar and all of Otan would have been grateful. However, shortly after the advent of the rippling energy, something peculiar started happening in Aydahar graveyards. The dead began to rise.

All of the city of Kizil was sounded to the alarm as everybody with a departed soul from those who had just recently died in their beds to those long-buried in cemeteries rose and began to walk. At first, they walked without purpose. Then, possibly out of envy, they began to attack the living. Skeletons, devoid of flesh walked like men. Their joints, crackling with the same energy that Ongar now used to heat up his sasik beetles for lunch, now powered undead Aydahar on their murderous haunt.

Both Ongar and Turar joined the city militia and any able citizens in stopping the rampage, made more difficult by a few animated skeletons of long-dead dragons, joining their skeletal Aydahar cousins on their quest to destroy the living. As the last of the undead near the city were made dead again, an interesting new occupation overtook the undead far afield.

“The source. The source.” They would mutter through energy crackling jaws as they directed attention and movement to the south.

“They want the relic.” Said Ongar to Turar. “Let’s assemble a party and recover it.”

Turar agreed, and within an hour, calling upon all the favors owed to his station, he had assembled a large hunting party, complete with bowmen, swordsmen, and battle lizard mounts for all. As they made their way south, they would stop periodically to rid the walking corpses of their ability to continue. Sometimes this was accomplished with bows, others by trampling by battle lizards. Turar unleashed the blessings of Jormunganr, which often caused the creatures to fall to the ground completely dormant. Ongar reveled in his crackling power as he blasted the creatures to dust.

In time, a hillock came into view, with the shambling dead approaching it from every direction. “The source. The source.” They chanted in wispy and at the same time gravelly voices.

“The prize is within the hillock!” Turar exclaimed. “This does remind me of a dragon’s lair, so be cautious. Let us proceed to lay these wayward souls back down to their final rest.”

With that, the brothers and their retinue began to dismantle the regiment of the undead. They circled round the hillock in smaller and smaller circles until the only undead remaining had disappeared into the hillock’s lone cavernous opening.

With grim determination, crackling energy, and the light of Jormungandr, they hewed down corpse after corpse, all while the corpses plied their efforts to reach the back of the cave, now piling upon one another. As the corpses lost their second lives and piled up in the cave, Ongar was briefly reminded of his encounter with the goddess Æski. He shook his head to forget.

The evening was upon them when the last of the corpses fell. The brother’s retinue was put to the task of piling the bodies into a great bonfire, from which they would never rise again. As the party eventually dug enough bodies out of the cave they discovered the object of the undead desire. A large dragon, cornered in the back of the cave lay dead, its skin all but flayed from its body.

The source, of which the undead spoke could not be the dragon itself, but perhaps something inside. It was a common practice for a dragon to acquire new treasures, first by swallowing them, so as not to lose the use of their talons, and then to deposit the contents of their stomachs into their hordes much later.

The brothers took to the grim task of butchering the dragon. The remnants were cast into the flames as they worked. As midnight approached, the contents of the dragon’s stomach were finally laid bare. There were two jeweled boxes, one black, and one white. In unison, Turar reached for the white box and Ongar reached for the black. Joy overwhelmed them both.

Exhausted, the party chose to ride back to the city, rather than camp for the night. An uncomfortably large number of undead remained in the woods, and the brothers decided that it would be safer for everyone if the relics were inside the city walls while the undead remained without. The dawn was threatening to break by the time everyone had returned to their beds.

The next afternoon, the brothers met at the Chantry to ponder the fate of their newfound treasures. It took some clever manipulations to finally open the boxes to see the contents. The contents dazzled their eyes. Entire litanies of words and symbols glowed and flashed past their eyes within the opened boxes. Alas for either brother, the symbols were unreadable. To spread the word of the Infinite One, Turar was gifted with language. He prayed for help and through prayer and study was able to determine that the boxes were indeed related to Heaven in the case of the white box, and the Nether World in the case of the black.

As their investigations continued, however, they received news from the city of Kara. On the very same day that they had received information from the Eldest Disciple Gulnur Olim about how the boxes might be manipulated for research, they received news that the same Gulnur Olim had been slain. He had been slain by visitors, apparently in the employ of one Hedgewind Jalinbeti.

They learned that the Eldest Disciple was behind the rise of the undead and that great efforts would be taken to ensure that he remain completely dead for the foreseeable future. Many offerings to both the Infinite one and those who rule in the Nether World were made to ensure this outcome.

“We are not safe, my brother.” Confided Ongar. “If these relics have the power to affect all of Otan, we should not keep them together in one place.”

“You are right.” Replied Turar. “Take the black box to Koke. My associates at the Chantry there will assist you in finding a secure place to continue your research. Meanwhile, I know a dragon near Kizil who will protect this treasure for me, should I falter. This Jalinbeti would be insane to attack the Chantry of Jormungandr and surely you will be able to keep with your dark magic. You’ve grown powerful.”

“I have a concern, Turar,” replied Ongar. “My ‘arrangement’ from which I receive my powers. I have been summoned on a mission to assist my brethren. I fear that the mission may be related to these relics. Perhaps in the eyes of my patron, I am not meant to possess them.”

“You’ll know what to do,” Turar said.

“I do,” Ongar replied. “I will not part with my treasure for any reason. Meanwhile, beware anyone with a connection to the Nether World; they may well be our undoing.”

“I will,” said Turar. “Safe travels to Koke and may the Infinite One protect you.”

The two brothers clasped hands, once again forming the holy sign of infinity, and parted.

Early the next morning, Ongar set out on his battle lizard for the city of Koke. He had suffered terrible dreams where minions of Æski had swarmed in upon him along with champions of some character named Jalinbeti. In the end, he heard the less-than-reassuring voice of Æski once again. “Secure the bridge to the Nether World,” she commanded. “Seek the help of my followers, your brethren.”

Ongar had little doubt that any dream involving Æski was not a dream, but an encounter with the goddess herself. The gods had a way of blessing, or infecting dreams to pronounce edicts upon their followers. Nothing about his encounter with the goddess reassured him. He had his powers, but he had no confidence in them.

The ride to Koke was uneventful. Along the way, he passed Koke merchants heading to Kizil and Kizil merchants returning from Koke, both with carts in tow, laden with the latest in Aydahar fineries and cuisine. Periodically a military unit from either region would ride by, wrapped in dragonscale armor and ready for action.

Certainly, the military had seen their share of action in the last few days. The undead uprising would have had many of them returning friends and loved ones to the grave. Or committed to flames. Either way, it was not a fitting battle for a soldier. Ongar could see and smell pyres all across the countryside, never far from where people might have been buried.

He arrived at the blue city of Koke in the early evening and his breath was taken away. His hometown of Kizil was a city in every right, but nothing like Koke. Where Kizil was a slapdash attempt to bring people together to trade, every street in Koke was planned meticulously. Every main thoroughfare was wide enough for an adult dragon to amble down the cobblestones, with a little room extra to get out of their way.

He wondered if it was the law or just tradition that every building in the city was blue in some way. Some were white with blue rooves, others blue with thatched rooves, but all blue in every direction. The Koke Aydahar tended to have blue features, and perhaps their love for this color manifested in many other ways. He did not know, but marveled at the city’s many features as he made his way to the local Chantry of Jormungandr.

The Chantry of Jormungandr was a spectacle of blue with tessellated patterns of dragon scales encircling the structure and building up to a spire that touched the sky. A dragon flew overhead as he marveled at the spire.

He entered, almost staggering in awe of the artwork and craftsmanship that went into every archway, every window, and pew. The carving was exquisite. The requisite statue of Jormungandr circled overhead, supported on lapis lazuli pillars. The Infinite One’s eyes looked truly infinite, made of star sapphires of impossible size.

Lyazzat Zhunis gently touched Ongar on the arm as he stared upward, mouth agape. “I find myself staring just as you do,” she gently confided.

Lyazzat, a venerable woman of the Koke Aydahar, with blue skin and scales looked up into Jormungandr’s sapphire eyes as well. “I can sometimes see the infinite in this work,” she said.

“It’s truly spellbinding,” Ongar replied, not intending a pun. “I am Ongar, brother of Disciple Turar from Kizil.”

“Lyazzat,” she replied. “Eldest Disciple of this Chantry. Blessings to the Infinite One,” she said as she clasped his forearms to form the symbol of infinity.

“Do you know my mission,” he asked?

“I have been forewarned,” she replied. “My acolytes are even now preparing to take you outside the city to continue your research. You will be free to return to Koke at your leisure, but with watching eyes, I recommend you do so after dark and cover the trail behind you.”

“You are too kind, Eldest. What can I offer as payment?” He asked.

“Do not make the mistakes of my colleague, Gulnur Olim,” she replied. “I could sense that he wished to make a bridge to the Nether World and failed. He did not guard against failure. Be sure that for every door you open, the door behind you is closed. In this way, the creatures of the Nether World will not take advantage of your mistakes.”

Ongar looked hurt, inasmuch as an Aydahar can look hurt. “I do not plan to make mistakes, Eldest.”

“No one does, young disciple. No one does, yet they happen all the same. You will have successes and triumphs. This I can foresee, but you will also have mistakes. Prepare for them as a warrior dons armor to gird himself for a blow. Do not cast open the gates to the Nether World as Gulnur Olim must have done. Perhaps a second such mistake will be the end of us all.”

Ongar considered her words and with a renewed resolve, asked. “I will take care, Eldest. I give my word. Now, where am I to begin?”

With that, the Eldest Disciple introduced Ongar to various members of the Koke Chantry of Jormungandr. With what could only be religious determination, they worked through the night, transporting all the equipment he would need to conduct his research on the unholy Meme of Aspan.

Loaded with pens and magical inks, brushes and magical paints, and all manner of ritualistic items for such dark arts, they loaded down their lizard beasts and rode them into the hills. Ongar followed keeping a look of solemn determination. Their destination was a dragon’s lair, complete with a mated pair of dragons.

“Work might prove difficult here,” Ongar muttered.

“You’ve been furnished with a cavern behind the lair,” one of the acolytes explained. “In this way, you’ll receive few unwanted visitors.”

Ongar was very satisfied with the location. Unfortunately, a large part of him felt a complete fraud, not knowing how he would go about his research. Another part was determined to try almost anything, however, and he reached out to those loftier thoughts to stay focused. He knew the Nether World. He knew its smell and he knew its power.

He decided to himself that he would find the key to creating this nefarious bridge. He would create the bridge to the Nether World. His brother, he knew, would create the bridge to Heaven, and together they would become the most powerful mortals in all of Otan.

His gear all unpacked in the cave he lay down to sleep through the day. He would follow the Eldest’s advice and conduct himself as the scorpion, working and traveling by night. When the day subsided he woke and set to work.

To summon a shadow beast from the nether world had become easy for Ongar. A few waves of his hand and the subtlest utterance of a curse was all it took. The beast would appear large, translucent, and in a terrible mood. “Why me?” They always seemed to say.

Ongar created several circles on the ground with the specially created paints that he had been supplied with. Each circle, he anointed with special runes according to the tastes he had developed under Æski’s thrall. He baptized each rune in his crackling powers, muttering a curse each time, charging every last rune with a taste of Nether World magic and a dose of his own scorn.

Completed, he filled each of the circles, seven in all with a shadow beast. He commanded them all to attack him. Still incensed by having been brought to this place against their will, they were only too eager to comply.

The circles in which the shadow beasts were summoned, however, would not let them leave. As they pushed against the boundaries of the circle to fulfill their command; to attack Ongar; they released amazing amounts of energy. Each one as the sparkled and crackled against the circle barriers released more energy than Ongar could produce in a day, perhaps a week.

The shadow beasts pushed against the barriers to their destruction, disappearing back to the Nether World as they screamed in anguish for the torment caused them by Ongar. Ongar delighted. He created channels in each of the circles to direct the energy to a central circle. He repeated the experiment, summoning demons, ordering the attack, and was eventually able to get most of the excess energy directed to the center circle.

He placed a branch in the center and summoned up more shadow demons. The branch was incinerated. He tried various objects, all incinerated. Finally, he tried a pile of rocks. The rocks were not incinerated, but they were sufficiently disturbed to become a pile of smaller rocks.

As the days went by, Ongar opened the Meme of Aspan and mused at the symbology. It was nonsense. He made extensive notes, looking for repeated words. Taking time to note words that he would recognize. One of the large circular symbols in the Meme seemed to resemble his own magic circle.

Carefully, even painstakingly, Ongar copied the circle on the Meme over his original circle, making the two interweave. He placed the relic in the center of the intertwined circle. It seemed to snap into place on its own accord. Nothing else happened, but the meme seemed very happy there.

It was time to add power to the equation. He summoned a single shadow beast and once again ordered the beast to attack him. It did not need to be asked twice and reached out for Ongar with murderous intent. As the beasts before him rivulets of the energy from which he was created and maintained, siphoned from his very being and channeled toward the Aspan relic.

A white cylinder formed around the relic, coinciding with the dimensions of the magic circle. Ongar tested the circle with his hand and was violently thrown back. His hand was badly burned but not injured. He would make a note not to repeat that mistake. He noticed that the energy between the relic and the shadow beast seemed to flow in both directions now. The beast, which was usually destroyed shortly into its command, was now growing, becoming increasingly more powerful within its magical confine.

Fearing the shadow beast would outgrow the confine, he ordered it to leave the cave and retrieve him a collection of sasik beetles. Convinced that the beast was cognizant of its new orders, he covered part of the circle with sand, breaking its magical boundary. The beast charged out of the cave, returned with two armloads of delicious sasik beetles, and vanished back to the Nether World.

Meanwhile, the white glowing cylinder that protected the Aspan relic had slowly weakened and vanished. Without a power source, it seemed, the reciprocating forces evaporated. He deduced that the relic somehow produced more energy than one could put into it. “How would one put this new magical force to work?” He wondered.

“How much energy could the relic handle? He wondered further.

He continued the experiments, taking careful notes along the way. He had several theories on how to direct the white energy from the central cylinder. He considered trying to tap into the flow between the conduits. He considered standing in a circle himself and contributing to the flow of energy. Alas, most of these thoughts left him considering his mortality. He doubted that he would survive any of the experiments he had dreamed up so far.

Eventually, he decided to call for help. He asked the Eldest Disciple to send two of her finest acolytes to see if they could draw from the power of the relic. This power was certainly not of the Nether World variety, he reasoned, and therefore outside of his domain. If it was heavenly power, surely the acolytes would be able to draw from it, or at the very least, understand it.

A meeting was set, and the acolytes arrived to discover Ongar in his cave with seven shadow beasts standing idly within magic circles. Ongar greeted them with blessings to the Infinite One and clasped forearms with them. Pleasantries complete, he explained. “I will order these beasts, to attack me. They will create quite a din, but we will be safe. Their efforts will cause a glowing cylinder to rise from the floor here. When it does, I wish you to try every litany you know. Try and draw from this power. Try and direct this power. There will be an infinite abundance of it! Do you understand?”

The acolytes made cautious glances at one another, but eventually nodded. “We understand,” they agreed.

“Then let us begin!” Ongar shouted as he placed the relic in the center of the circle. Jumping clear he shouted to the shadow beasts, “Come at me!”

The beasts pressed against their confines. The Nether World energy began to crackle. The relic’s cylinder began to glow. The experiment apparatus was working better than it had ever worked before. The glowing cylinder grew blindingly bright as the shadow beasts grew more powerful than any he’d ever witnessed before.

Ongar directed his attention to the two acolytes. “Begin your litanies now! Draw from this power if you can,” he instructed.

The first acolyte, a younger male of the Koke Aydahar began to speak, but could only make a gurgling sound. An arrow was sticking out from his throat. More arrows were directed at the other acolyte as Ongar realized that they were under attack.

With a wave of his fingers and the delivery of many expletives, he fouled each of the magical circles containing the shadow beasts. “Destroy the intruders,” he commanded.

The demons attacked the strange group, who were seemingly led by a hooded figure. The second acolyte quickly fell to crackling energy from the hooded stranger. “Æski has come for her prize,” he thought.

With little time to think he watched the white field around the relic dissipate. Grabbing the relic the first moment it was possible. Three of the seven shadow beasts had been sent back to the Nether World by this time with a combination of Nether World magic, furious arrow attacks, and something else. “Was it dragon magic?” He wondered.

Securing the relic, Ongar turned his mind to escape. He summoned Æski’s power to help him seep through the walls. It was too late. The last thought to go through his mind before he was overcome by the dragon magic was, “Æski! Why have you forsaken me?”

Ongar had no memories of the afterlife when he awoke on Turar’s alter in the Kizil Chantry of Jormungandr. On seeing his brother’s restoration, Turar looked upward, holding his hands to the sky, and wept his gratitude to the Infinite One. He sanctified Ongar with his tears, wiping them onto Ongar’s cheeks with his thumb. “Rise again, my brother,” he chanted.

“Tell me, Turar,” Ongar asked. “Was it the minions of Æski who betrayed me?”

“Relax, my brother, for revenge is already in the planning. The minions of this Æski were indeed behind a heist, but it is my relic that they stole. Your relic was taken by the people in Hedgewind Jalinbeti’s employ.”

“Who is this Jalinbeti? Is he everywhere? Is he the most powerful person in Otan?” Queried Ongar.

“No, my brother. He is just ambitious. Relax, get used to your renewed body. We will have our revenge on these minions of Æski. We will have our revenge on Jalinbeti. This I say to you as surely as Jormungandr is infinite. Rest, my brother and soon we will set our revenge in motion.”

Copyright © 2021-2023 by Robyn Blaber. All rights reserved. Content on this website may not be reproduced without written permission of the copyright owner.