How We Found Orcus and What He Did to Us When We Found Him

The Last Days of Ranais
or, How We Found Orcus and What He Did to Us When We Found Him

Our word for world was Ranais. It meant “land” in an old language that no one spoke anymore.

It was a rich, thriving world, with wide seas and wider continents over which us humans had spread. We ruled the lesser creatures of the world, taming animals and cultivating plants. We learned, we built, we fought. We died and were born.

We gained knowledge of the other worlds, the world Heavens, the world Hells, the worlds Cogs, Chaos, Gray, Spire, and the rest. We didn’t explore them much, content as we were with our beautiful world Ranais.

We prayed to our gods, which most of us understood were manifestations of a single, primal power, for which we had many names. It was this single god that ruled the Great Wheel of existence, turning it through the eternal cycle of Life and Death. In the central kingdoms of the world Ranais, we built nine great cities on the shores of the Circle Sea. Each city was dedicated to a single aspect of this ruling power.

In Demete City, we called him the Gentle Curtain. He was the one who took away the sadness, the smiling, caring whisper that ended the torment. Not the cause of pain, but the blessed, desired release. He was the one who lead us into the clearing at the end of the path.

In Ort City, we called him the Judge. He was the right and the way, the dispenser of the ultimate justice. He spun the Wheel silently, rewarded and punished, with no passion. He was the one who sent the dead into the seven heavens, the nine hells, or into the swirling chaos to be reborn.

In Moil City, we called him the Master. He was the one who, in his divine knowledge, made the choice, ordering the dying to die, the living to live, and the chosen ones to linger in between. His choice was our fear, for we saw it for what it was, lawless, whimsical, a game.

It was in Moil that we rejected him.

I've seen the future baby
It is murder

We cried “Enough!” We cried “Release!” We disrobed the priests, shattered the altars, released the sacrificial animals. We refused the offer of sanctuary from Demete and other cities, thinking we could kill Master Death by saying we no longer believe in him; like children, our eyes firmly shut, assuring ourselves that there was no monster under the bed.

But the monster had been there. The Master soon came, appearing to every official in the city-state of Moil at the same time, asking for an explanation. The ones we had to offer were less than satisfactory. He smiled his terrible, sad smile, and left, leaving naught but a cryptic message, a promise of a new meeting.

Then the sun turned ill. Its healthy red rays turned orange, then yellow, and finally white. Astrologers from around the world came to Mount Shasa to observe this phenomenon, some fearful, some excited. No one came from Moil though, for there we already knew. We knew before the black stain started to develop in the core of the blinding white sun. We knew that the wrath of the Master was upon us.

White and black, you’re looking for the sun boy?
The sun doesn’t shine down here in the shadows

When the warping sunlight began to blight the land, all the children below the age of ten lost the ability to speak. The only recognizable sound they were able to make was a short word in a language foreign to most of them. The word was orcus. “Master” in the Moil dialect.

By that time, the other cities realized that the world was being killed, and also what must have been the cause. They sent emissaries to Moil – politicians, priests, soldiers – to do whatever was necessary. Make the rebellious city repent, beg its Master for mercy, or be sacrificed to quail his anger. They all came too late.

Where Moil once stood, its proud towers overlooking the banks of the river Ointar, now there was no sign of civilization apart from bleak, icy ruins. These ruined buildings belonged to no architectural style known on Ranais, and obviously much older than the ruins of Moil should have been. The city was simply gone, the river was frozen in black ice, and winds of death scoured the empty land, draining the life-energy of the trembling emissaries.

Kali, Kali, balo bhai
Kali bai are gate nai

There was no hope left, the world Ranais was dying. Plants refused to grow, animals grew mad, the children were born blind, deaf, and dumb. We surrendered to despair. Anarchy brought down the few organized survival habitats, while priests who claimed they could create gates to lead the people onto other worlds were ridiculed and murdered. The old beliefs crumbled, the new ones were made and unmade within weeks. The mighty and knowledgeable chose undeath, but without the Master’s blessing they could not harness the negative energy beneath the raging, dying sun. The lesser folk that died became mindless walking corpses, while the dying that understood the cause of their world’s doom became wraiths, vain and powerless, but able to remember.

And so, we remember. There’s nothing else left to do anyway. We remember, and we despair, but we cannot weep. We no longer know how much time had passed, but we still know the story of Master’s vengeance, and sing it to each other, dancing in the dead sunlight. The thing is, we feel a story like this is in dire need of a good weeping. So we wait for stray travelers, wanderers from another world looking for a gateway to lead them onto yet another one. We capture them. We sing our sad songs to them, tell them our said story.
If they weep, we set them on their way, urging them to spread this story of death and retribution.
If they do not weep … Well, even the dead have to feed.

The city of no sun
No peace in my heart
You left me nothing
You left me broken