Of The Gods That Were Made

During the dead hours of the deep nightfall, they gathered. Their numbers increased in the blink of an eye within the intricate room carved deep into the metamorphic rock with walls dilapidated and fashioned to the bare-earth design. In a semi-concentric formation round the centre were terraced steps that faced inwards as seats for the multitude. Above, the ceiling of the earth was curved into a geometric gaping aperture through which the moonlight poured, stricking a flat rock pedestal below. The multitude arrived clad in dark, heavy, ragged cloaks that housed a darkness on their faces over the hoods. Quiet and linear, they moved—from the dense, dimly lit woods, down the secluded spiral of stairs into the esoteric lair. The silence was as loud as a whisper as the discipline screamed through their conditioned stillness. Amid the thickening aura, a singular man entered, followed closely by two others. His presence thickened the ominous atmosphere that lingered long overdue. He weighed a dark magnanimous leather-bound book in both hands, moving gently to the centre. The two men branched off in opposite directions, seating themselves among the terraced ranks. The singular man proceeded to the pedestal. He laid the book down and faced the brethren. "Brothers...." his voice rasped, "The mother has embraced us with her face—Pure. Pale. Pearlescent." Hoarsely he added, "The mother embraced us with her voice—Virtuous. Malevolent. Yet impartial." The ominousness lingered. The brothers listened. "It has been generations of birth and death. Generations of sacrifice and blessings. Generations of blood and milk." A beat. "At last, she has spoken," He then exposed his face unto the pouring moonlight through the aperture, "And I—The Lord of Mortem— have listened." "Blessed be the mother!" The brotherhood replied in unison. A beat. "Behold," He said opeing the book, "The Scriptures of Lur." His fingers turned carefully the generation-old pages whose age was sold off by the characteristic brown tint on the paper and the frailty of its nature. "The mother says, 'Behold my sons of Mortem—the chosen and the enlightened. I tell you of the dawn of the shadow that rises neither from the East nor West. A dawn born behind the curtains of the sky and masks the face of the sun at every end of time. Fear not my sons! The darkness shall not harm you wherever you are. For it is I who masks the sun. It is I who protects you. Rather, I bring forth a new dawn. A new age— More generations of birth and death! Generations of sacrifice and blessings! Generations of blood and milk!' In the blink of an eye, the brothers rose as one. "All hail mother of mortem! Blessed be the mother! All hail mother of mortem! Blessed be the mother!" "Brothers!" The Lord's voice cut through the echoing chamber. "A new dawn approaches. A new age awaits— With birth and death. With sacrifice and blessing. With blood..... and milk!"