Rage Is Just An Amber

It was 2090 in Kiti Town, a settlement that spiralled and spread around two estuaries on a coast of the Atlantic. Dosu had ruled the empire for seven years and was set to pass sovereignty to his only son, Goriola, who attained youth wielding his thirsty spears into the hearts of the enemies of the land. After seven days of fetish rites, the time to witness the chief priest of the land sought for an evidence of bravery from Goriola which was at the time a custom and an officiated confrontation with Taraka the gnome came. First four years of Dosu's reign had left Kiti Town a bulging fantasy out of cacophony of events, sapping as it were in his years of acclimatisation to a greedy ruling council, and brewing hostilities and wars on the soil beneath his stool. As his son's inevitable but achievable feat drew near, the gods of his land rocked from his persistent appeasements. 'Ho! I be forsaken, doom be driven and out of its hiding place.' The referenced effigy abreast him on the day he uttered this silent orison spun with life and reeled all over the vial-littered shrine in the middle of sacrifices that circled it, howling. It was the first time the powerful effigy reciprocated Dosu with verve of that magnitude, in the reeky sacred private haven supernatural circumstances had sat her. Soothingly stunned, he listened like an expectant gritty little child to a message that surpassed whims and chronicles. Dark flames spurted from the lips of the animate efffigy that had been given a temporary license to life by her progenitors. She also flailed her studdy arms gently in the air after this vivacious spell, sending Dosu's staggering feet reciprocating like a rocked boat in the middle of a cavernous cave. Dosu wanted to bolt to a faraway spot outside the shrine to maybe catch a puff of breath but he quickly made a resolve to gather fortitude as he recalled the generosity of his clan chiefs who had accompanied him and were waiting on that end, eager to get a word from him. A word from the effigy was a success therein, either positive or otherwise. He threw a piercing look once more at the object of his request for a minute that lasted almost an hour for him but there was no response as he watched the polychrome monster recoil to state. 'My Lord. You should throw a feast with fervour for this,' Sejro, the third chief said to Dosu, brimming with smile. 'Really?' Dosu inquired. 'Yes, my Lord. Its silence connotes a victory for Goriola.' 'But I was told it must speak' 'This is huge my Lord. Not stirring is only the evil' Dosu raised his chin, pointed to the sky and grinned from ear to ear. Victory was truly almost in sight for the Dosu ruling house and Kiti Town but he knew it would not ensue from Goriola for Goriola called Dosu his father but he had been delivered to Dosu as an infant in the most furtive of circumstances. As nature required a persistently stern patriarch in homes of every caste, Dosu feigned brilliant fervour for half the feast, haunted by guilt for most part of the dreary evening. Time hardly ticked so quickly for him that night but when it did clocked past midnight, Dosu called out his four wives for a meeting. They appeared from different raffia closets with their feet making the thud thud fairly louder than the king's between the sheets. For this latent weakness, Segilola, Dosu's first consort, had absconded from the court with his only heir apparent a year after his coronation. Segilola had not lived to see the next sunrise after her dastardly act but more tragically, the innocent little prince she eloped with shared in her morbid end. This was a tale that sent gory waves across the town and news of Dosu's involvement in the conspiracy that sent both subjects to their early grave tore the town apart. Since this event, everyone in Kiti Town dreaded and resented the king's vicious wield of power. His other queens did even more so. He announced to the four shrunken women his resolute stance against ceding the royal stool to another royal house, demanding from them absolute support for Goriola should his departure precede the distinct sound of the mournful gong. They were terrified. Their eyes widened and their pupils at the mention of 'Goriola' twitched sideways like a rehearsed synchronized eyeball dance at which the speaker showed noticeable insouciance by further adding his fears should they act against his aforementioned desire. The twenty-four hours wait seemed eternal for Goriola. On his royal horse his towery frame lingered, conspiring with the creature to strike gallantry when he spoke of his readiness. 'May the gods wield your shield and for you shove the spear,' all the chiefs prayed without dearth of expectation, each nodding to the syllables in their prayer for greater delivery to the gods. Glory nighed the warrior. Taraka's roar was heard from a distant range and the chief priest led the horse warrior out of the palace, round a hill adjacent the fortress and twist vast hilly moors via a footpath that took them farther in plumes of dust onto The Land Of Ghouls, a promontory abreast Taraka's abode. The vicious demeanour she wore tore Goriola's germinating confidence into shreds. The monstrous creature sauntered out of the cave in face of the absence of cheers and jeers that welcomed him and which wore down his counterpart. Goriola recalled the carved caveat he saw on the walls of the palace after his initiation- an imploration against an apoplectic spasm while in a duel against Taraka, especially when on a sun-baked ground as such that was under his feet that moment. 'Oh you scornful pig!' He rumbled beneath his breath. The line had been drawn. In a befuddling short spell, after a small stone struck his beaded neck, he heard a thunderous voice emerge from the face of his adversary. It was not pleasing to the eyes and was not a pleasure to observe but as his courage grew, she slipped out out his sight, leaving him heavy plumes of smoke to combat. It reeked rotten beasts from her beloved underworld. Goriola fought hard not to believe his inheritance had been leased to another man on the soil he had been latently bred claimed when the time was right and he waited for a verdict from the kingmakers. Dosu licked his wound after this awful development. He tended to minor matters but neither honoured dinner invitations from nobel chiefs or kings nor offer his presence at gatherings for the next seven days. His courtmen carried with them the knowledge of his infirmity and spread them across his wet country.