❖ shadow of the colossus - { dream x ulcis }

[Osheaga]

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    Since an unknown evil ravished their villages, the people dwelling beyond the Forbidden Land were left dazed by the destruction and unsure as to where they should begin picking up the pieces. They were left hindered, vexed and ultimately, broken. Homes lost. Children, mothers, fathers - all dead. There was no food, no shelter from the elements, no happiness. It was then that a brazen scholar suggested they travel southward to the Forbidden Land as they were aware of the hatred in which other clans held towards them. "It has been uninhabited for centuries," he preached, "The empire there has risen and fallen; nothing but ruins and a remnants of a broken civilization is left there. We should take advantage of this land and seize it for our better good!"
    
    Many of the people were skeptic. They were raised being fed rubbish concerning Dormin, the lost deity, and how the Forbidden land was dubbed as such by the god's treacherous ways. Still apprehensive, the indigenous believed it may have been in their best interest to inhabit Dormin's fallen kingdom; they wanted peace and quiet, tranquility; to replenish their numbers and grow as a race. At the scholar's behest a tiny group consisting of 50 people - mostly carpenters, warriors and a handful of farmers - were dispatched to inspect their future home and begin constructing settlements. The trek past the fjord was perilous, with the coming of purging rains that swept the destruction from their villages out into rivers; it was a flood, one that hindered their progression, but did not deter them from their goal.
    
    Amongst the group was a nameless shaman, a woman who's silence was deafening. She guarded the explorers with her immaculate jade eyes, peering over the fjords' peaks and down into the abyssal rivers that spelled death if one were to stumble only lightly. She spoke not a word or uttered once complaint, left dumbfounded by the destruction that befell them not even seven moons ago. "Excuse me, shaman," a man whispered as he careened over his mule, eying the curvaceous woman rather conspicuously, "May I ask why you're here? I haven't any need for a healer, though it would be convenient; you would have been more useful guarding the people back in the village, not here with a group of sex-depraved soldiers and farmers."
    
    At that instant his mule made an unamused grunt, bucking mildly from side to side. It was then that the shaman outstretched her soft, jeweled hand and gently patted the mule on its snout. It was soothed instantly, assuming the pace it had before being so suddenly disturbed. The man riding it - a widower and farmer - was left bewildered as the tan-skinned, mysterious woman guided her steed, a questionably large feline - through the narrow fjord's pass. But a day later the throng of anxious pilgrims arrived within the Forbidden Land, crossing the bridge which led to their new home. It was a tedious trek but, they were all pleased to come to a rest when their destination was in view - a temple.
    
    The fatigued travelers all stopped to congregate at the temple - decidedly for a few days - until they came to a conclusion as to which group which travel in which direction, and how they were to establish communication between each other in such an grand peninsula. As they came to the foot of the temple, which was facing in a southward direction, the pilgrims took note of the setting sun; nightfall, here, was unknown and they realized it would be unwise to travel when there was not even a moon to guide them. A middle-aged man cantered up to the alter within the temple, his armor singing a song of time as he approached it. With his good eye - the other a shade of milky white suggesting he had lost his sight - he gave the alter a once over and reached out to touch it with his scarred, calloused hand.
    
    It was then that the shaman intervened, her voice a passionate utterance amongst the other pilgrims while they chatted and roamed the enormous corridor within the temple, observing the idols that lined each side. Her striking ginger-ale eyes popped out through the dimness within the foyer while her stark, starless mane cascaded around her clothed shoulders and full breasts. "Ah, I forgot," the warrior whispered sullenly, "This place is ... sacred." His tone was mocking; cocky, and it put the shamaness at unease. The man examined the shaman - she was tall, amazonian, with a beautiful coffee complexion and tempest eyes. "You've lead these uneducated fools into this dying land," the shaman preached; the warrior was taken aback by her commanding tone, "That is your doing." The warrior sneered. "Then why would you have part in this "genocide"?" A lapse of silence, and the shaman replied. "Because I was told to watch over the children, lest they burn their stubby hands on a pot of scalding water."
    
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[Ulcis God of Chains]

The conversation was unheard by two sets of ears. The first belonged to the very scholar that had suggested this venture. He was too busy entrancing himself in the arcane writing that was utterly lost to him. It was transcribed in places over the doorway that the group had passed through at the end of the very long bridge that acted as the only way into this land. The scholar stood on the tips of his toes to try and see what was written above the door, his fingers straining to touch the markings, too feel how it was that they were hewn into the stone. He was a tall man, thin from lack of sustenance more than from exercise. His lanky form had trailed along with the group that had come to this land almost at his bidding. He had read about this place in ancient tomes, hard to find in any but the shadiest of shops and merchants that traveled through the lands they had previously occupied. He straightened his spectacles as he came farther down the side of the door, still doing little more than just admiring the craftsmanship of the stonework around him. He had full intention of attempting to crack the code of this writing, maybe to find out more about this so called "Forbidden Land" that they would now be forced to inhabit.
He did not believe in gods or goddesses, but he had seen enough indication of magic that led him to believe that it was a powerful being that was imprisoned or banished here so very long ago. Long dead, surely, but powerful indeed. He sighed as he stood up straight, looking around at the round room that slowly wound its way down to the pool at the bottom. There appeared to be more markings here and there, all of which he would gladly look at as he moved down the spiral. Scholar pulled string from a pocket in his leather pants, tying back his long raven hair with it so that it wouldn't get in his eyes as he studied more. There were echoes of voices from the others far below, but nothing could be discerned from so far away, or from so deep in thought.

The second pair of ears to miss the exchange within the temple was a farmer that was without. This farmer sat atop a stone quite a ways from the pillars at the entrance to the temple. He had led his horse down the stairs immediately upon arrival, wanting to allow it grazing time while the others discussed what would happen and who would go where. He looked around at the wide open plains, mountains and cliffs not too far in the distance. This was a place of varied landmarks and it made the farmer happy. He had always loved the thrill of new places, always wanting to travel on his own, but never able to because of the responsibilities of his home. The thoughts of his farm razed to the ground brought a somber expression to the momentarily gay expression on his face. He leaned forward, placing his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand as he watched his horse, Boreas nibble at the grass, chewing hungrily. The farmer's unkept hair wafted slightly in the gentle breeze the blew from the south. He wasn't a small man, but he was not the tallest of the group, either. He had toned muscles from the physical labor that he frequently did in the Old Lands, plus his love for hiking and climbing had given him a little spring to his step and nimbleness in his fingers. He looked in that direction, the sunlight glinting from the west threw strange shadows because of the rock formations. He even thought that he saw something move, but that was much too far away to see anything of significance. After a couple more minutes of allowing Boreas to eat the Farmer stood, turning to pick up the long staff that connected to the bladed end of his spear. It had been the only weapon available to him from his home after it had burned down. It was sturdy, a piece of solid metal made up the entire weapon, which he had wrapped in cloth to make it easier to use and carry for long periods. He whistled gently for his horse as the sun dipped behind the mountains to the west and Boreas looked up and slowly began to follow him as they went back to the temple.

A few minutes later both the Scholar and the Farmer were entering from opposite ends of the temple. The Scholar was more interested in the immense statues that lined the room than the tension that hung heavy in the air. Farmer had led his horse back up the stairs, not wanting to leave it out in case of coyotes or other predators that might be in the area. He sensed the thick tension and turned to ask someone about it.
"The shaman is being crazy is all," the man replied, also wearing the armor of the warrior class. He barely even took notice of Farmer, more intent on what his captain would order.