Deep within Inner Earth. Ponworld. Time unknown.
Nomad vs. Damon
Two awesome fighters clash. Face to face. Eye to eye, and all four of their orbs were as black as coal. They are fearsome combatants, nearly identical to one another, even down to the heavy black cloak they wore. Except that one of them has a snarling, blood-thirsty expression and demonic temper. Red sparkles flashed in his eyes; and the fighter’s face cast a red glow - Red face. The other fighter has a dark gray skin - Gray face. The twosome grabbed at one another, grunting, puffing, and jockeying for a dominate position. Red face growled, his eyes ignited in a blaze of glowing fire and hatred. He unexpectedly, mysteriously, became a giant. Even though both fighters started at the same size, Red-face grew even bigger.
Red face lifted Gray face with ease, like a toy, and flung him aloft. Red face gleefully laughed as Gray face was struck hard against a boulder, the breath knocked out of his lungs. Gray face fell to the ground; he struggled to take in air. He is too hurt to get up. Gray face helplessly watched as the aggressor floated towards him. Red face weighs nothing, like a colossal, wispy monster, with outstretched arms, and sharp, twitchy claws. Red face’s mouth opened wide, too wide to be possible, and his lengthy fangs erupted forth. Ready and eager to devour his prey, Red face rumbled, “Grrralwah.”
Gray face knew his time was short. In desperation he declared, “You are not me.”
To which Red face screamed, “Ha! We are one! We are one!” The monster proceeded to sink his fangs into Gray face’s bare neck.
Gray face screamed, “Ahh!!!”
****
“Ahh!!!” Nomad woke up, startled, trembling and scared. Sweat poured from his brow. He sighed in anguish, tilted his head back and whimpered, “Twas only a nightmare Nomad. The nightmare. The same one I’ve had since being a lad. Nothing but a dream. Forget it me friend. We are not one. Forget it!”
He reached for his leather pouch, the one he had used to lay his head on while sleeping. It was soaking wet from perspiration, mixed with . . . tears? Nomad touched his eyes. They were moist. “What’s this?” He had been crying. “No,” he grieved. “No. This cannot be. We . . . we are not one! It was just a dream!”
Nomad got up, wiping his face with his cloak’s sleeve. He turned this way and that way making sure no one was near, just in case they had heard him screaming in fright. No, he was alone, just the way he liked it, especially after living through the nightmare, yet again. Anyway, after what happened in the Great Hall he really didn’t have a choice but to be by himself.
Nomad cried out loud, “Father banished me. Why? Father Neebus, why?!” He wanted to call out to his father via mind-speak, but Neebus was too far away. Speaking via mind-thoughts had its limits. Besides, even if his father had heard the plea, it would not change anything. Father Neebus would not listen. Nomad wondered if the nightmare had anything to do with recent events, and why he was expelled from his home. That query however, belonged in the same hidden catacomb where he deposited so many things, most especially the nightmare.
He breathed in and calmed his turbulent emotions. He got up, gingerly at first, but soon found solid footing. Nomad encouraged himself by asserting, “Back to work, Nomad. There be places to see!” The great wanderer was on an epic journey, traveling to a distantly located tribe. The Lost Tribe, or so they were named. For some strange reason Nomad felt drawn to find them, like they were the center of all things Inner Earth. Rumors said they had located to a newly discovered chamber where there was enough Maana-type vegetation and wildlife to sustain a small colony.
“I will find this legendary tribe and it will be a highlight of my long list of tall tales. After all a myth teller must have a renowned yarn to capture his audiences’ imaginations. I know the Lost Tribe will be the story that is unmatchable. Supreme. The Lost shall be found. Hmm. I rather like that saying.” In a most dramatic way Nomad spouted to the air, “Hear Ye, Hear Ye. Ponworld’s citizens both near and far. The Lost shall be found! Nomad the legendary king of sagas declares, the Lost shall be found!” Nomad raised his arms, as if he could hear the applause of a happy audience. He bowed to them and said, “But I repeat myself, fair and honorable Nomad lovers. He, he. No matter what obstacles I face, Nomad shall deliver!”
He had a general idea of the direction. To the Lost Tribe that is. Some channels along the way were wide enough to easily walk through. It was alleged that others required the traveler to belly-crawl through narrow spaces that were filled with jagged, rocky protrusions. For sure those holes were occupied by nasty critters that were tucked away within hidden nooks and crannies. Making their living by feeding on the Pon travelers.
Mestolor spiders were among the worst. Nomad reflected, “Eh gad. The meanest critters they be.” Their first bite paralyzed their victim with poison. A Mestalor’s second bite? Well the gory details were less than pleasant. But that was to be expected, Ponworld was never easy. Life was always a struggle to navigate and survive.
He wondered if his father’s words be true, and that Ponworld was not a true reality, but was just a shadow of the surface world. Nomad’s father would say, “Inner Earth is a foreboding place for the punished to claw out a meager and grim existence.” As he thought about his father’s description of the so-called real world, the surface world, and how much better it is, Nomad reviewed the only world he had ever known.
“Ponworld!”
He lifted up his arms, as he liked to do, and in an overly grand style he pointed to the surroundings saying, “Father. My reality is this! Twas ever thus and forever will be." Nomad’s nature and his personality lent itself to see the dramatic side of things. An actor at heart, Nomad reasoned it might be a good time to practice his oratory skills. A drifter and story teller had to have the gift of gab, and be really good at captivating audiences with his command of the Pon language. Either via mind-speak, or talking aloud. To wit he said, “And whether Nomad’s stories be true, or embellished beyond belief is another, shall we say, story. He he.” He swaggered about with an air of theatrics, pretending that there was an eager audience waiting for him to start the show. They, of course, were spellbound by his thrilling tales of Inner Earth’s strange and mysterious habitats.
“If and when I find this infamous Lost Tribe, they will be enthralled by my eloquence and talent. They will in due time repay me greatly, he he.”
He took note of some movement nearby. “Ah ha!” There were spectators present, of sorts. A collection of Rockbugs skittered about, so Nomad addressed them. “You shall do well enough, my fair Rockbugs. After all, what good is an actor without his spectators? Now bugs. Pay ye attention to Nomad.”
The bugs were all ears. Or they certainly were in Nomad’s fruitful imagination.
Nomad studied the chamber he was in, well observing its features. Nomad directed his gaze at the bugs. “My fellow Pon citizens, most caverns are dark, like this one. Stalactites and stalagmites are often the norm. Either coming from above or shooting out from the ground. Sometimes from the sides. Those be some mighty weird ones. He he. And over there we see layers of black rock embedded into the cavern walls. Coal, my friends. Tis Coal I say. We Pon use it for creating fire. To cook our food. Which might consist of a variety of fleshy choices. From the foulest of vermin to ourselves, who as we know can be equally foul, he he. We Pon are not so picky, you see. ”
Nomad turned his gaze straight up. “In some caverns you will determine the ceiling’s limits. Others are so far away that you could not. Why Nomad has seen some that have a mist that makes the ceiling impossible to fathom. Those vaporous chasms are where the giant Mestalor spiders like to hide. Swoop down they would once an unsuspecting Pon got too close. The spider, if big enough, would grab up its victim with its eight legs. Tightly, too tightly the monster squeezes its prey. Send its spikey thorn into the Pon’s chest - whilst inflicting its sticky, gooey poison.” To illustrate the point, Nomad poked his claw into his chest, feigning being struck and subdued at the same time. “And while the target trembles with fright, paralyzed by the poison, the Mestalor opens its toothy orifice and proceeds to munch upon its victim’s skull, or his shoulders, or his legs, or internal organs, or his reproductive parts, or his . . . well you get the idea. The monster’s hot, bubbling drool melts Pon flesh. When the skin is gooey enough the creature licks the slop into its mouth. Yuk! Sadly the Mestalor’s prey is too paralyzed to scream, but merely watch in a horrified, stunned shock as his parts are consumed. Once the beast has had enough slop and Pon organs, the spider turns its back to its pray. From its hind quarters the spider spurts out its webby goop, a stream of sticky fibers, which wraps up the half-dead Pon in a Mestalor cocoon. Throw the bundle upon its back, the spider would. The creature then shoots out a line of thread straight up to the ceiling. Climb up into the mist the monster goes where it disappears from sight. Why my fine comrades? Well to further feed upon its still-alive, cocoon-wrapped, Pon meal. Yum! Yum! My hardy Pon comrades, yum indeed. Eh gads! I’ve seen it happen. Aye, my friends Nomad has surely seen it. Yes indeed.” He shuddered at the memory, but was pleased with his performance up to that point.
Nomad thought to himself, Good enough, so far so good. His Mestalor saga, well-practiced, would undoubtable entertain a future audience. Pon love Mestalor stories.
He was about to continue with his oration when a sudden drop of water from above struck his head. Plunk! So he decided to adlib it to the story. “Many caverns have water dripping from their ceiling.” He opened his mouth and let some drops enter his waiting tongue. “Mmm. Sweet nectar. But not as sweet as Maana berry wine, he he.” Jokes were a key element of his repertory.
“Ah ha. I see how some of your buggy antennae twitch at a strange pace. Could it be that ye think Nomad be insane? Talking with bugs after all. He he. Fear not brave bugs. Fear not. Nomad be many things but his sanity remains intact.” He winked at them for emphasis. But a few of the bugs were not convinced. Their antennae twitched even more vigorously.
Nomad grabbed up a loose stone that shed a bit of soft light. He pointed the rock towards one particularly close Rockbug. That bug, naturally, was fascinated by the glistening stone. “More often than not caverns have enough Crystallite stones, like this fine beauty, to make the spaces easy enough to see in. Where Crystallite gems and a source of water exist, there will be Maana vegetation growing along the cavern surfaces. The short-cropped greenery, sprouts flowers, berries, and leaves that could be harvested for food. Or drinks like Maana berry wine. He, he. Often, and in those places, dirt is seen. Soil. Deep and fertile. Enough to produce a variety of foliage. But Maana is the most prevalent. Ponworld my friends, houses many life forms.”
“But I need not remind you of our home’s overall delicate nature. Abundance is rarely, if ever seen. Food stuffs are too often scarce, and if not cared for, easily decimated by greed, lack of planning, or naturally occurring upheavals.” He reached for some nearby vegetation and scratched up a small portion. Nomad smelled its budding yellow flowers, and chewed it down. Sadly however the plant housed some Rockbugs - including the bug that was mesmerized by the Crystallite jewel.
“Sorry,” Nomad said as he crunched away, “But not sorry. Me be hungry.”
Nomad heard the sound of running water. He went to it like only he could. Prancing and twirling, causing his cloak to float around. Nomad topped off his little dance with a hop, skip, and jump. “Weee!” He sang, “Weee!” The bugs that Nomad had not consumed followed, and they too skittered-out a lively step of their own. In Nomad’s mind they also sang, “Weee!” whilst doing so.
“All together now. Weee!” Nomad remembered something and declared, “Weee? Wee? We . . . are one!” Wait. He suddenly realized, That saying is from my nightmare! He quickly corrected himself and told the bugs, “Never mind the ‘weee’, my wee little friends. I said nothing. Nothing.” Nomad loved his play on words as in, we, turning into wee, to describe something small. He snickered at his own creativity with puns. “He he.”
Nomad stopped at the water’s edge and restarted his story. “Some spaces have brooks. Others hold lakes, rivers and yes occasionally we see fish. There be hot chambers with spurting streams of lava. Sans the fish of course, he he. I have heard that there be a rather infamous lake of lava, or fire. Tis called the Lake of Fire. Not very inviting is it? Perhaps along the way Nomad will find it, although it certainly does not sound like a place to call one his home. Or rest his weary head. No Indeed, no indeed. I have seen giant spires made of a glowing marble that stock translucent colors, but those be rare. You see many believe Ponworld is a most bleak place, and rocks be the only material that surrounds us. But there are many Ponworld habitats that support all kinds of life, whether or not one has actually seen it, or not. By the way, that is Nomad’s job you see. To give you a glimpse into the unknown realms of our glorious Inner Earth abode.”
He paused for a moment before asking, “My dearest Rockbugs. How does thee like the show thus far?” Nomad smiled at their claps and hip-hip hoorays. Moments of a dramatic pause followed by leading questions were also embedded into his performances.
“Yes Ponworld holds many marvels.” Yet Nomad had to wonder if his realm paled in comparison with the humans’ surface world. Father at least was firm on that topic. But Nomad wasn’t daunted by his father’s deliberations. Comparing Ponworld in a poor light whilst saying the surface world was so much better seemed far-fetched and impractical. Father could be wrong . . .
“And that my fellow Pon citizens is the end of our story.” He beheld his buggy audience. Nomad smiled at their generous and thunderous applause. He bowed melodramatically while saying, “Thank you bugs. My wee friends. Thank you.”
Nomad added as an encore, “You Rockbugs have been most kind. But a new audience awaits. To hear more stories. Nomad’s yarns and adventures. His recompense? Sustenance of various kinds, they shall provide. Ye ask what the fare might be? Well I shall gladly list them. There will surely be wine, picked from the best Maana berries. Also Nomad’s pick of women or wrenches might be tendered. And Nomad does not care if the female be one or the other, meaning a fine beauty, or uninviting slut. He he. A meal, or two, or three, to fill his belly and pouch is always good as well. Tis Nomad’s way. A journeyman’s life. To tell tall tales both near and far.”
“So now my friends, Nomad shall take his leave. Fare thee well bugs. Fare thee well.” He waved to the Rockbugs and in Nomad’s eyes they, with their spindly little arms, waved back. Their tiny voices in chorus caroled, “Thanks be to you. Oh great Nomad. Thanks be to you. Go in peace. Live long and prosper.”
Nomad nodded at their fond sendoff. He turned his sights up high, calling out, “Another fine performance completed father.” Although his father Neebus didn’t approve of Nomad’s choice of a vocation, it didn’t really matter. Acting gave Nomad a mission in life. A purpose. “Father. Can you hear me? I like what I do.” Somehow thoughts of his father’s influence was ever-present. He couldn’t escape it no matter where he might roam.
“I am Nomad!” he said in a most prideful manner and in spite of his father’s disregard. “A man unlike Ponworld has ever known.” That boast always got him inspired to keep moving forward, and at the same time helped to put the nightmare where it belonged, in the realm of his mind’s deepest abyss. Right beside the troubling memory of the Great Hall event.
“The Great Hall,” he sighed. “My home. Taken away from me. Brutally yanked from my heart. Mother too. But I shall return father. I will return.” Nomad heaved another sigh, and without really understanding its significance Nomad foretold, “Alas fair Nomad, alas. Only time will tell. Time will tell.”
Abruptly Nomad declared, “I thirst.” He got up and drank from his gourd until the last drop entered his licking tongue. “I still thirst.” He smacked his dry lips and began walking into a nearby passageway to search for more of the precious liquid.
What am I?
Nomad came upon the last known lake of water in Ponworld. Craggy cliffs, mounds, and outcroppings blanketed the chamber’s surfaces. There were Crystallite gems all about making it easy enough to see in. Because of the stone’s illumination, and water source, there were various types of vegetation growing on the ground. Some of it short and stumpy, others taller and fuller, with a variety of leaves and buds. He went to the lake, filled his gourd and scooped up more water to refresh himself. The gourd was full but he would need to find more water on his journey into strange lands. Food too. He had previously taken Maana plants and some meat, stuffing his pouch with it, but he would have to scavenge other resources. Nevertheless he could do that; he was skilled at foraging, hunting, and yes killing, no matter what manner of flesh.
When the lake’s water became still, he bent over and reviewed his reflection. Nomad liked what he saw. His great ego kicked-in and with his flamboyant tone he asked, “Besides being the greatest actor that ever walked the plains of Inner Earth, what am I?”
In return his likeness, one of Nomad’s many personalities responded, You Nomad are a Pon. Your skin is the color of ash, a dull gray and dry looking. Your head is round, bulbous, and barren of hair. It does however house a brain that can hear others’ thoughts; and they can hear yours via mind-speaking – an advantage, especially if one needs to silently communicate with fellow tribesmen while on the hunt, or escaping from enemies. Your nose and mouth are small and unassuming. Except when you open your jaws and reveal a nasty array of fangs. Your tongue is black. You have clawed fingertips and toes, gnarly too. Nasty looking they are. He, he. Your ears are set low upon your neck, but they can hear the faintest of whispers. Your eyes are large, and as black as coal. But they can pierce the darkest of spaces.
“Pon I am.”
And not human. Nomad accepted the account of being a non-human, sort of. Twas a notion for the ages; and one that tugged at his heart. He couldn’t help but wonder if the Pon, and that watery reflection that was staring back at him, were some kind of deformed humanoid. A sub-species meant to look repulsive. Even though he was used to his appearance, there was always the view that Pon were unsightly; ghastly even, with their black eyes, dry-as-bone gray skin, and gaunt structure. It was like the Pon were the walking dead. He didn’t know what humans looked like to compare with but he wondered if they were much more pleasant to behold. Long hair, fair luminescent skin, colorful eyes, fine facial features, and supple, full bodies. Father at least bragged of such things. So it haunted Nomad to know if Neebus’ descriptions were accurate. Not human . . . Hmm.
He stared back at his reflection and mocked, “Father says you are unsightly. Pah! I say, you my friend are quite a handsome fellow. Aren’t you?” He stuck out his black tongue; his reflection did the same.
“But humans?” Nomad listened to his father’s stories of humans. Man for short. Surface world beings made in the image of God. Neebus taught him of such things from as far back as Nomad could remember. But Nomad had his doubts, especially since his father usually spoke of humans when he was drunk from Maana berry wine. Over much time, and probably because of Neebus’ influence, the term man was adopted by Nomad’s people to describe the Pon too. Even though most Pon believed that surface world men were nothing but a myth.
“But are we men father? Or be we only Pon? And is Inner Earth all that there is?” Nomad’s reflection, sadly, did not answer. Apparently his water-reflective ego was stymied by the question. Go figure.
Strange terms from Neebus’ rants also popped-up like, Eden, Sheol, angels, giants, sunlight, sky, sun, moon, and many others. But those peculiar words usually crossed his father’s drunken lips right before passing out. No, all Nomad knew were Pon. Outcasts, according to father, sent to Inner Earth. Ponworld. Cast down to Hades, was another way father had described it. Neebus didn’t tell him the reason for the casting down narrative. Go figure.
Perhaps in his wandering Nomad would find the answer to that question. Perhaps that was what the voice in the Great Hall was trying to tell him. Perhaps many things, but wander he would do, regardless. To the four corners of Inner Earth Nomad would travel. Seeing things no Pon could even imagine. Gathering more tales to regale his future audiences with. Most notably, and upon completion of his performance they would repay him with food, wine, and most critically, wenches to conquer. Be they fetching or homely, even by Pon standards. That, albeit lustfully selfish thought was never far from his mind. In fact Nomad was always thinking it . . . Hmm.
His reflection agreed. Wenches. Hmm.
Nomad said a fond goodbye to his reflection with one of his favorite expressions. “Don’t mind-speak us; we’ll mind-speak you.”
Nomad got up and moved toward the channel that led to unknown lands. To find the supposed Lost Tribe. “There be dangers there, it is said. And unspeakable evils.”
“Pah!” he snorted. Nomad was not troubled by those warnings. For some reason it fascinated him more than scared him. “Pon are not the most adventurous of creatures. Neither are they the most curious lot that opt to learn new things. But Nomad is no ordinary Pon. By Hades, bigger and stronger than most is he.” Nomad took in a deep breath, expanding his torso. He was thickly muscled, wide chested, with heavy hips and legs. His furry Sterga hide cloak made him even more impressive. Additionally he had an unwavering feeling that he was somehow invincible.
“Thanks be to Hull, I am invincible.” He stepped into the dark tunnel, and boldly breached spaces no sane Pon dare tread. “To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go here no Pon dare to go!”
The Great Hall
Ten sleep cycles in the past.
“Ahh!!!” Nomad abruptly woke-up screaming, “Ahh!!” His dream, nay his nightmare left him drenched in sweat. We are one! We are one! The words he loath to hear rang through his mind. The unwanted, dreadful phrase coincided with red flashes and violent scenes of bodies being ripped apart. And blood. Lots of it. Curiosity kicked in and for some strange reason he felt compelled to recover those images. He actually wanted to retrieve more the dream’s ghoulish details. He tried, but soon enough the crazed pictures vanished without a trace. Good enough.
“Me gods,” he voiced in astonishment. “What in Hull’s good name was that about!?” It was similar to his reoccurring nightmare, and yet somehow different. More real if that be possible.
He wiped the sweat from his head, took in a deep breath and calmed his emotions. Nomad summoned the strength to stand, warily at first. His muscular legs took over and he staggered a few steps forward. He turned around. The spot where he had lain his body was defined by a sharp outline. His outline. Nomad’s silhouette had been deeply etched into the dirt. Arms, head, torso and legs. The profile looked burnt as well, as if someone had put a torch to the dirt. The whole package appeared as a shallow grave that had left his shape’s hefty bulk within the sunken, scorched soil.
“By Hades, what is that pit of darkness?” He couldn’t remember how he had come to rest there. “I was returning from a trip to perform for a nearby clan. Yes. I must have stopped here on my way home. This burnt hole in the dirt must have already been there. And I fell asleep on it without noticing its features. Its outline. So similar to mine. But it’s burnt!? Eh gads. Must have been real tired not to see it.”
Nomad spun around and marched into a tunnel that led to his home. “The Great Hall.” With nostalgia he voiced, “I want to go home. There’s no place like home.”
After a short journey through a few channels he entered the Hall. A giant chamber, as wide and tall as any other in Ponworld. Immediately he noticed many men and women strewn across the rocky floor. They had loin cloth wrappings colored by blue paint, others red. The colors signifying the tribe to whom they belonged.
“By Hades!” he said in shock. “What in Hull’s name has happened!?”
Obviously a great battle had taken place between the two tribes. Broken stony weapons lay about, amidst crushed and torn body parts. Blood stains were splattered on nearly every seeable spot. The survivors moaned and cried out in distress. Those who had the strength in them, noticed Nomad, and either shrank back in great fear, or prostrated themselves.
Nomad, although greatly distressed by the carnage, stepped forward. He went and stood before one of the groveling figures, who wore a red garb. By using mind-speak, Nomad quizzed the wounded man. He asked, Soldier? What has happened here? Why are you acting this way toward me? Bowing your head at my sight? Are you insane?
That particular genuflector responded via mind-speak and with great humility. He said, Great lord master. My king. The man bent very low to the ground, honoring Nomad’s presences. But after a moment he started crying in agony. Nomad soon saw why. Both of the groveler’s legs had been bashed to a pulp and he was quickly bleeding out.
Nomad would get no more answers from that poor soul, so he tried to measure the situation on his own. Two of the greatest Pon clans had battled and had come to the point of total destruction. There are Hull worshippers here in blue loin cloths. And angel believers wearing red are here. But why? The tribes were known to be at odds with one another but they usually kept their distance.
“What by Hades has happened?”
Nomad moved through the crowd, doing his best to avoid hurting the survivors, whilst swishing through puddles of their blood and guts. In his ears and via mind-speak Nomad heard the survivor’s cries for help, but there were too many wounded, so he was forced to ignore their pain. Nomad focused his intentions on what was crucial. “I must find mother and father.”
Nomad navigated his way toward the central area of the Hall, passing by the chamber’s numerous formations. Mighty columns appeared. Some were erected by hand. Other pillars, as some believed, were made by angels, or by the god Hull. It was said the columns symbolized the four corners of Inner Earth. But Nomad had his doubts about that claim. Round about the columns were long-hanging stalactites, whilst mounds of dirt and muck sat below them.
“I must find father and mother.”
He passed by walls made from boulders. The huge rocks had been piled-up, one upon another. Their arrangement was not planned in an orderly way, too often those walls of stone were in disarray. Pon were not the best at building, nor at even knowing why such structures were needed. Regardless, streaks of blood and guts were splattered on the boulder’s sides.
Nomad looked up at the highest of walls saying in surprise, “How could blood be flung so high!?”
One boulder had come down and was on top of a dead warrior. Only the man’s head and one arm was sticking out from under the heavy stone. The man’s eyes were wide and staring . . . at Nomad, as if blaming him for the crushing deed. “How could a rock so large suddenly topple over and crush that man? Coincidence?” Nomad ignored the man’s scowl; he had no other choice.
Nomad kept going, irrespective of the man’s accusing glare.
He passed by tents and hovels where families built homes. Many of the tents were on fire. Black smoke and ash was in the air. Too much so, Nomad had to wave it away less he choke to death. He somberly looked through the smog wishing to visit some of the tents, where he had friends. But he feared what he might find, so turned his eyes away.
“I will see to them later.”
Shrines to the lesser gods of Pon beliefs were scattered here and there. But those too were knocked over, or covered by dead Pon warriors. None of the areas where unaffected by the destruction. Either they were torn-up, burned, some still in flames, or at the very least covered by blood stains.
“Is there nothing left?”
With great sadness Nomad muttered, “Bodies. Their blood spilt upon every seeable surface. What power could have sprayed blood like that? Like taking gourds of it and carelessly flinging it everywhere.” He immediately thought of the Pon legends that spoke of mind-motion. The power to move objects with a thought. “But that is only a fairytale meant to entertain, and it’s not real.”
Soon enough he came to Hall’s apex. A hollowed-out chamber set within the Hall’s overall expanse. Inside that chamber was the sanctuary; the Great Hall’s holy temple. The place where many Pon came to worship Hull, the god of Earth, or so many believed. A raised platform of steps led to an altar, which at the moment, was partially destroyed. Dead soldiers were strewn around it. There were still a few survivors here and there, but they were in bad shape. Once again, as when Nomad had first entered the Hall, the red clad fighters genuflected at Nomad’s sight. The blue clad ones slinked away as best they could, hiding behind anything they could find. A fight to control the altar had been fought, and it appeared that none were victorious.
Nomad was mystified and vexed by the sight. He stared at the surviving red-garbed warriors. “Why did they want to destroy the great altar?” Pon belief systems were many but Hull worshippers were never a threat to anyone, at least not enough to kill one another. “Angel worshippers must have attacked and the Hull believers fought them. Trying to defend the altar. And my home.”
With focus and determination Nomad voiced, “I must find mother and father.”
Nomad looked off to a raised platform-like niche where he saw his father, Neebus. The old man was still moving and Nomad was greatly relieved. “Good. Father is alive.” The old one was seated upon a throne-like chair. Neebus had his head in his hands, and was convulsing in distress. Nonetheless, Nomad was confident that his father Neebus could tell him what had happened. Nomad walked closer.
At the base of the platform, Nomad stopped. He studied his father and waited for him to respond.
Neebus did. The old man peered down at Nomad and yelled, “Be gone!” Neebus couldn’t have more direct. The old one angrily waved his arms while throwing the meanest of stares. Neebus’ black eyes strained. If possible he wanted to bore a hole into the man standing much too close for comfort. Neebus spit, “Be gone vile creature. Abomination! Find your home somewhere far away from here. Ponworld’s furthest, deepest pits of despair. The abyss of Sheol itself. That is where you belong.”
Nomad was stymied. He pleaded, “Father!? Please. What’s going on?”
Sad now, Neebus gazed at his bare feet, and the bloody ground. “No. You and your shit stories. No.” He waved at the bodies of dead soldiers. “This isn’t a story!”
Nomad was confused. “What have I done? Father?” The stench of the dead warriors was strong, it swamped Nomad’s nostrils. Open bowels with their foul contents were gushing and writhing all around him, like slithering Fangworms. Nomad could only conclude that his father was somehow blaming him for the death and destruction. “Are you accusing me of doing this carnage? Why? I had . . . I had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t even here. You know I was away, performing a dramatic episode for a clan that invited me to their tents. When I returned I fell asleep in an outer chamber. As soon as I awoke I came into the Great Hall. Father. I wasn’t even here!” Nomad pointed at the red clad warriors. “Angel worshipers are here. Why? And why did they battle your tribe father? Our tribe?” He indicated the blue clad individuals.
Neebus did not answer except to make his scowl even deeper.
Nomad decided to take a different approach. “Where’s mother?”
Once again no reply came from Neebus. But the old man put his head down, and via mind-speak he muttered, Jeebel. Dearest Jeebel.
Nomad heard Neebus’ mind-speak of his mother’s name. He responded, Mother will tell me what happened here and she will say I can stay. Surely. She will not blame me for this? Where is she? Is she among the dead!? He screamed out loud to the cavern ceiling. “Mother! Mother!”
When he got no response and could not see her, Nomad started to shake from anger; something inside of him was boiling to the surface, and it felt good. Powerful. Too powerful. “Grrrhh,” He rumbled. Nomad’s face and eyes suddenly turned into a blaze of red. Twas Red face! The monster’s chest heaved and greatly expanded as he readied another roar. “Mother!! Mother!!!” Red face’s shouts were so loud that they echoed, forcefully, throughout the Hall. The ground started to vibrate. Dust fell from above.
The blue clad survivors shrieked from fear, but the red attired ones bowed in awe.
“Stop!” Yelled Neebus. He saw the demonic transformation in his son, but it did not dissuade him from protecting what was left of his clan. As a result Neebus’ eyes also changed. They turned from solid black into being white, with a shiny blue circle in their center. Human eyes they be! Neebus pointed his withered forefinger at Nomad. The old man stood, and was getting ready to spit out another diatribe when he abruptly stopped moving. He cocked his ear, as if to say he heard or sensed that something very important was about to happen. Neebus prayed, “El help us.”
Boom! Boom! Boom!! Pounding booms erupted. Then everything came to a silence. Ponworld was still. An awesome event was coming. It did. A majestic voice, venting from the Earth itself broke the silence. The words proclaimed, “This abomination, this son of a fallen one shall wander the depths of Inner Earth. To the four corners of unknown realms. Finding solace in none. A drifter with no place to rest his head. Indefinitely. Beyond time. Through this creature the lost shall be found. His name is, and will be called Nomad. His doppelganger . . . DAMON!”
The world quaked.
Both Pon men trembled. The mighty words pulsated through them from head to toe. Neebus gaped wide-eyed at the cavern ceiling in fright. He fell to his knees sobbing, hiding his face in shame and regret. Neebus well knew that voice, no matter how long it had been since last hearing it. That sound was unmistakable; The First and the Last.
Red face also stared wildly into the depths, amazed and bewildered by the words. He too was shaken to the core, so much so that his face and eyes lost their red glow and returned to normal.
Nomad, momentarily stunned, shook his head clear. Something disturbing had occurred, but he wanted nothing to do with it. But whether he liked it or not, the mighty words were etched into his mind; they were embedded into his spirit. Nomad’s black eyes watched his father’s response. He was dismayed by his father’s sadness, but Nomad refused to bend knee as Neebus had done. Hostile emotions within him rejected the truth. Twas his pride and pretense.
Instead, Nomad turned on his father asking, “Who . . . What was that sound!?”
Neebus recovered and replied, “Even one as misguided and false as you know. Perhaps eons from now you will learn to worship our creator.” Imparting wisdom, no matter to whom, was Neebus’ calling. His curse even.
Nomad smirked, in a rebellious yet unsure way.
Neebus however was sure; he had seen his son’s cocky sneer once too often. He yelled in rage at Nomad, “Damon! Trespass upon this ground any further and I will call upon El, and His kind to do you as foul as you deserve.”
“Father! Why do you call me Damon! Are you insane? I am Nomad. Father!? I am Nomad. Look upon your son!”
“I have already done so.” Neebus grabbed his pouch. He started lifting a shiny stone from it. The gem’s blue glow burst forth, but only partially because Neebus stopped himself from fully pulling the jewel out. The stone’s blue tint perfectly matched Neebus’ blue eyes. Both glittered. “Go!” Shouted Neebus. Go before I . . .”
Nomad’s face twisted at his father’s threat; the warning, the promise. He saw his father’s precious stone and well new that Neebus was not bluffing. But Nomad stood firm and after a few defiant eye blinks he reluctantly turned to go. Before disappearing within the nearest of passageways Nomad uttered, “I will return. Father!”
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