Uldar’s body floated before his creation.
All was silent in a cavern where ruined spawn corpses lay spread around the cave floor as a warning to their brethren. Cautioning the living of what would happen to any that disturbed the Ravener’s grieving.
The great orb of darkness hovered above water, its gaze—its attention—was fully on the silent form of the god who had created it. Days had passed since the body had been brought there, and for days it had guarded it like a suffering dog guarding its ailing master.
But, the Ravener’s master was not ailing.
He was dead.
He was gone.
And the construct was lost.
With every sense it possessed, it had examined the body, looking for signs that might lead to its master reawakening. While it could not undo death, if there was even a spark of life there—any at all—perhaps it could bend its mighty powers to fully restore that life.
To restore Uldar.
But, deep down—and with growing acceptance—it knew that such thoughts were futile. When it was created, there was no tool available which could heal its creator of the terrible wound festering in his side. There was no method, no knowledge, or medicine that the Ravener could have used to burn away the poison, and it had certainly found none in itsmillennia of existence.
Back then, its creator had been alive.
But now, he was gone from this world. Something unimaginable at one time.
He was not supposed to be gone. He was not supposed to die. Uldar was supposed to be eternal.
And there was no protocol within the Ravener’s core to guide it now that the unthinkable, the unimaginable had happened. The construct had been given independent thought by its maker, but its entire existence was dependent on the purpose for which it was created: to drive the Thameish people to the height of fear.
That fear would generate faith in Uldar.
That faith was meant to heal its master, to be a balm for him.
The Ravener was equipped, by Uldar, with protocols that instructed it on what course of action to take in specific situations. If a Usurper surfaced—and its master had not made contact to approve the use of dungeon cores by his people—then its instructions were to create Hunters to find and destroy the Usurper. If the number of Usurpers increased, then it was to create petrifiers and eliminate them.
If a General were ever to resurface in Thameland, then it was to remove the safety measures placed upon it, destroy the Heroes and wipe out most of its creator’s people. Then Uldar would be free to rebuild. But the existence of a General—according to the Ravener’s understanding—was not supposed to be a possibility—in all cycles. Its creator had assured that.
So when it had sensed the return of a General, it knew it must consult its creator to verify the truth or error of that information before taking such drastic steps. It needed confirmation. But there could be no confirmation from its creator, now. He was dead, his body now floated in the air before it. Uldar was still. Lifeless. Never again able to instruct it on what he wanted it to do.
And a protocol had never been created for such a situation.
Its entire purpose was to heal Uldar through his people’s fear.
But now, there was no more healing, restoring him was no longer possible.
‘What must be done?’ it wondered. ‘Why do I exist now? Why does Thameand exist now? What is our purpose?’
It had asked itself these same questions over and over. Days had passed without any answer. While capable of independent thought, the nature of its design only went as far as allowing it to make decisions on how to best fulfil its purpose.
Never once in all of its thousands of years of existence had the Ravener thought to strike out on its own, to define its existence by its own standards. Not once had it considered the implications of its acts or its very being. Not once had it considered its actions either right or wrong.
It never had to.
But now, the construct was forced to grapple with defining its own path. An action it feared greatly.
‘Creator,’ it thought. ‘What do I—’ it paused, realising the futility of that thought. ‘No, the creator is dead. It is for…me to decide what to do next.’
For the first time in its long existence, it felt a new emotion.
Jealousy. Envy.
Jealousy and envy toward the mortals in Uldar’s kingdom.
They were not created to follow one singular purpose for the full length of their short lives. They were able to decide what their own paths would be. They seemed to be prepared for the deaths of those who gave them life, and seemed to know what to do after.
Mortals knew how to make decisions when there were no protocols.
They had true free will.
And this was something the Ravener did not share with them, did not know.
‘I cannot imagine my existence with Uldar dead. I cannot imagine the kingdom existing without its creator,’ it thought. ‘We are both bereft of purpose. Should we even exist?’
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For a moment, the Ravener considered erasing its own existence, following its creator into oblivion.
It dismissed the notion.
‘I would simply regenerate after a hundred years had passed,’ it thought. ‘I cannot terminate my own existence. And that would not be what my creator wished for…if that even matters. No…it has to matter.’
It turned its thoughts back to the mortals that inhabited Uldar’s kingdom. What steps did they take when those that were close to them ceased to exist? The Ravener knew that the Thameish people honoured their dead, placing them beneath the earth with stones to mark where they lay. The living were the stewards of the dead’s legacies.
That seemed most appropriate for the Ravener now. To become a steward for its creator.
‘I should preserve Uldar’s legacy,’ it thought. ‘But what should that legacy be?’
For a bit, it felt rage towards its creator. At no point had he given it a protocol for what to do should he die. He had not told it his will. He had not spoken of a legacy. He had no command for it to fulfil if he drew his last breath. ‘None of these things were in place because he was never supposed to die!’
How could it fulfil his legacy when it could only guess what that legacy should be?
‘But fulfil it I must,’ it thought. ‘It is the closest thing to my original purpose that I have. Without it, I am nothing. But what is his legacy? Would his legacy be his command to me? Would it be my purpose?’
It considered this for a time.
If its purpose was Uldar’s legacy, then its next actions became clearer. It would simply continue the cycle, terrorising Thameland’s people, and generating faith…for…for…
‘For what? For who?’ the Ravener wondered. ‘There is no point in faith if it cannot heal Uldar. Then, what does that leave? If his kingdom is not generating faith to heal him…then it has no purpose either…’
Perhaps, then Uldar’s legacy should be the final protocol that was embedded deep within it: death to all of the Thameish people.
It considered this, focusing on this one outcome for hours. There was much about the idea it found appealing. After all, it was Uldar’s own people who had cursed him with sickness and death. Did they deserve to live on without him? Perhaps not. It would be different if they had rewarded him with faith at all times. It would be different if their god did not have to create a cycle of fear to serve his needs. To try to save his own life. It would be different if his life was not forfeit protecting these same people, they who did not reciprocate when he was in need. How he must have suffered.
The people of Thameland were coddled. Arrogant. Spoiled.
Should the Ravener not punish them for these failings?
It knew, then, that that was what it preferred to do.
The Thameish people created graveyards for their dead, did they not? So it could turn the entirety of Uldar’s earthly kingdom into a graveyard: a monument to the god’s life and death—guarded by the Ravener, its spawn and dungeon cores—and left to return to nature.
‘Let the natural inhabitants inherit the realm,’ the Ravener thought. ‘Let any who return from across the sea be obliterated. Or better, let them be without a homeland, left to wander as barbarians like their ancestors did before Udlar saved them.’ But is that what should be done?’
A doubt lay in the Ravener’s thoughts.
There was no turning back from that decision.
And one thing it could not deny was that Uldar loved his kingdom and people.
‘Would the creator wish for me to lay waste to all that he built?’ the Ravener wondered. ‘He put thousands of years into helping his people, growing them, and shepherding them from the harshness of the greater world. He was wounded defending his people…would he want all of them gone eternally? If only I could ask him! If only he had told me before death took him!’
But none of these things could happen.
It was too late.
The Ravener continued applying its thoughts to the problem. ‘Perhaps inaction would be the best form of action,’ it thought. ‘Perhaps I will allow my Ravener-spawn to die, and simply go dormant in this dark place far from where any mortals could find me. I will stay here, guarding Uldar, leaving the kingdom to its own devices.’
For a time, the Ravener favoured this idea, but—after a day thinking on it—the construct dismissed it. For all the magnificent powers that Uldar had invested into his Ravener, the creator had not seen fit to grant it one ability that mortalkind enjoyed.
The ability to rest.
The Ravener could not sleep. It could not dream. It would remain locked in thought, watching over its creator’s body. Never acting. Never creating. Never killing. The more the construct thought of this fate, the more it knew horror.
‘I would only be able to go dormant by being destroyed,’ it thought. ‘But I would still reawaken in a hundred years to return to the same pointless cycle. Back to a period of an action. Then destruction. Then oblivion. Reconstitution. Then more inaction. No. I could not do that. I will not do that. It serves no purpose.’
It dismissed the idea. But, if it could not destroy all of Thameland, and if continuous centuries of inaction and pointless action was the ultimate horror…what did that leave?
‘Perhaps…I could do the opposite of what I have always done. Perhaps I could aid Thameland’s people, protecting them as the creator did. I could help build their society, providing spawn for their army, and destroying their enemies. They might not trust or welcome me…but I could still be their protector.’
A part of it scorned the idea. Its purpose was to terrorise the Thameish people. Helping them…felt the same as unmaking its own purpose. Yet, if that was what the creator would want, certainly it should oblige. It was becoming overwhelmed, increasingly uncertain as to what to do.
‘The situation needs more contemplation. Things are changing too rapidly…’ it thought. ‘In the meantime, inaction is also a problem. Perhaps a trial then, one where I allow a number of Ravener-spawn to continue to destroy, while I let others provide aid, then I can decide which feels most correct. But…there are certain other matters that must be attended to. There are two Usurpers alive still. And a new General. There are protocols in place that were being used before I knew of the creator’s death. Those I will continue. Uldar put them in place for me to follow. The Usurpers and General are still dangerous, and could account for factors that would pervert Uldar’s legacy. And no matter what I determine that legacy is to be, the three of them would need to be eliminated.’
It reached deep into its core.
‘I will lift certain safety protocols, and craft petrifiers and Hunters much quicker’. It reached even deeper into its core and found a monster it had not been permitted to use since Uldar had replaced the General with the Fool. ‘…this one will be for the General, since it is one of my most powerful creations.’
It started the process of crafting the mighty creature: A Skyfire Swarm.
‘This creation was designed by Uldar to kill a General… but if it fails in its task, that will help me to know what else to do.’
Death and aid would both come to the Thameish.
Then the Ravener would decide which one the people deserved most.
It turned its attention back to the body of Uldar.
His corpse still floated in the air before it.
‘That is not a pleasing image of you, my creator.’
The Ravener reached out to the cavern floor with its immense power. Channelling its energy into the ground, its guard-spawn fled as it shaped a towering black throne from the stone.
Beneath the body, the ground continued rising until the throne rested atop a tower formed of smooth rock.
The Ravener used its power to raise Uldar’s body through the air, setting it upon the throne it had fashioned, posing it as though it were alive.
‘There you will stay, creator,’ it thought. ‘There your body will sit and watch over me while I do what needs to be done. If you can watch me from the after-world…it is my hope that my choices will please you.’
Then, the Ravener sent its spawn out.
To test Thameland.
To test itself.
To help it decide its creator’s legacy.