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Hate was a seed, a seed that once given fertile soil would gingerly tend to itself with the nurturing flows of water and intentful trimming of petioles. It was a seed planted in the heart whose encompassing roots filtered the love and mirth for its own growth. A selfish seed, not a plant but a fungus. A heavy fungus that grew larger and thicker, kept plump with manure and filth. Rooted in the heart, the fungus would clot arteries and veins alike so no warming blood could flow in or out without the appraising ire of the fungus allowing it.
A fungus that is fed can hold no limits, the fungus can become the man and grow greater still, grow even more vile. But the fungus need not be fed and even a fungus once nurtured for can be abandoned, can be let free; it, fat with history would take long to wither true, but time is a curative paired by no other. The fungus could shrink, its roots relinquish, and the blood could flow once more as is needed for a human to live.
The man opened his eyes, squinting as the bright day star unimpeded shone down upon him. It was a clear sky with nary a cloud above to blot the active play of winged deities above. Many of the other Tarragon monks were up and about documenting the aberrant density of action in the skies. The dragons were usually stagnant creatures never much to move often, the monks used to get excited to witness a single flight in a year. Today they had already seen three dragons swing by and were energized with anticipated thrill for the expected fourth.
The man himself did not follow in his colleagues charged spirits as his impetus did not rouse on extrospection. Unlike most of his communal brethren he had not joined the Tarragon’s convent for a shared curiosity on the dragons but rather a much more personal pilgrimage.
He was not totally disinterested in the happenings however and still kept a passing attentiveness on the subject through the societal osmosis of the convent. And in fairness, the dragons’ activity did deserve attention, as such bustling movements heavily implied action, which, when dragons were concerned rarely lacked scale.
The busy observatory no longer felt like the solitary room of meditation. The Tarragon monastery was built upon a massive plant that bloomed out of the cruor swamps below and along the base of the serpentine mountains, rising far higher than even the nearest towering trees. This plant provided for the monks in its full, it housed them through its hollow stems, it fed them through its nutritious flowers, and it provided the monks with a place of worship along its massive leaves.
The observatory was built upon one of these giant lateral leaves. The dozens of monks that filled into the observatory along with all their equipment of mounted magnifying glasses and fibrous documentative mechanisms began to weigh the leaf down slightly. No monk wanted to move to another platform however as this leaf was the highest one, allowing it an unobstructed view of the skies above. The man being the only one on the leaf not present for the dragons’ sake chose to leave and keep the leaf’s mass load under capacity.
The man entered the large stairwell that spiraled around the inner circumference of the hollow plant and descended to his chamber. His chamber was a relatively small leaf situated quite close to the top of the residential leaves; he held a position of minor prestige as both a longstanding member of the monastery as well as a follower of one of the four principal dragons.
His homely leaf was very simple as all of the residential leaves were. It was a vital part of the Tarragon lifestyle; each member must keep themselves unbound lest their worldly possessions weigh on them and break the leaf with which they live, plummeting them to the sinful swamps below; a religious symbology matched with a potent practicality. The man’s home was particularly empty containing only a single bubble of water with which to act as a mirror. Within the bubble of water, he saw his own reflection.
Each monk wore a simple green himation fabricated from the leaves and fiber of the plant that formed their monastery. It was under their garments however that gave the Tarragon monks their notoriety.
The Tarragon monks were well known across Trammel for two things; the terribly hostile location with which their monastery was placed, and their skin which was nearly completely obscured in the vibrant green and red paints that depicted a storied weave of draconic trees.
Through the paint, each monk defined their pilgrimage. The Tarragon monastery was a place of rebirth and clemency; the paint upon their bods described the monks’ impulsions and how they planned through their draconic baptism to bookend their personal ascensions.
The man’s canvas began at the heart where green paint drew an accursed fungus that blossomed out towards his knuckles and feet, the main body of the fungus rose, its fruiting body landed upon his chapped lips. Descending from the top of his shaven head was the red paint that detailed Ménage the blood dragon colliding with the fungus at his lips. The red dragon paint spiraled down grappling with the invasive fungus fighting over the man’s body; the battle finally culminating with the dragon’s left hand firmly clasped around the man’s heart at the fungus’s source.
To symbolize the dragon’s blessing on the monk’s mission, each monk would find a dropped fragment from their patron dragon and implant it into the top of their skull where the red dragon paint originated. As a follower of the path of the blood dragon the man had a large round pink leaf that had once acted as one of the dragon’s floral scales protruding up and back from his cranium like a large unwieldly headdress.
The leaf that comprised his room suddenly slumped down; he turned around to see a friendly face at his room’s entrance. As a follower of Muse, the dragon of knowledge, the approaching monk had a long blue tuft of fur which fell from their scalp like a lush head of hair. “Will you not be joining in the observations Squally?” she was an older woman whose soft complexion granted her an illusory youthfulness.
Squally shook his head in confirmation of her question. “No, I’m sure regardless of my involvement you will be quick to ensure that I become well informed on the discoveries made. I am much more pressed upon my own meditation. I feel I am close to something tumultuous.” His voice was flat but internally the very vocalization of his words brought anticipation. He was close upon a great shift on his spiritual journey he was sure. The blood dragon was soon to touch upon his fate line.
The woman laughed at her conversationalist’s bluntness. “I just don’t see how a Tarragon monk can be so unconcerned about the lives of the dragons.”
Squally let out a sigh. It wasn’t the first time he had been called out for his aberrant behavior, and he was certain it would be far from the last. “I am not unconcerned about the dragons; I am just focused on my patron dragon exclusively. Honestly, I’d like to throw the question back to you. How can all of you have so much free time to ponder over the dragons beyond your own patrons?”
The woman puffed out her chest and spoke in a haughty jest unexpected of such a regal character. “Well as a follower of Muse It’s my responsibility to know all about the dragon’s society. And as a follower of Ménage, I thought you would think the same way as me.”
Squally rolled his eyes at the woman’s buffoonery. “I guess we have different interpretations on what Ménage seeks in us.”
“Suit yourself.” The woman gave Squally a final wave goodbye and left the room eager to join the building crowds on the observatories.
Squally was left to his lonesome on his leaf. He could hear the bass of the energetic crowd muffled through the many leafy canopies between him and them. Squally made his way to the tip of his leaf and laid down allowing his weight to press the leaf lower so that it inclined in just the perfect way to encourage his rest.
Squally fell asleep.
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The curtains then closed over the stage, large lights along the building’s ceiling flashed on illuminating the confused audience. A few people looked over their tickets to double check the time stamp placed on it. The chapters didn’t usually end so abruptly like this, they always concluded with either an invitation to the tournament or some kind of greeting from the white witch. This chapter just ended with some barely developed character falling asleep.
A young fancily dressed man walked onto the stage in front of the curtains with a large megaphone in hand. “Alright everyone, we are going to start the intermission a little early. You may leave your seats to go and stretch your legs, maybe take a washroom break or something. The next chapter will start in twelve hours.”
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Much of the audience was unsure of how to act, but once a few people started getting up and moving around the rest of the crowd soon followed suit.
You remained seated, allowing the larger crowds to thin before getting up. Your legs weren’t particularly sore, nor did you need the washroom, but if the intermission was provided you supposed that you were a little peckish.
You found yourself waiting on the crowd to thin for quite a few minutes. It was a large theater and it had been completely full at the time of the showing. The empty time left itself to be filled by your wandering mind. You pulled your scrunched up ticket out of your pocket and read it over. There was still plenty of time before the chapter should finish.
The theatre had completely emptied, you were the only person left in the massive auditorium. You stood up ready to leave through the exit and peruse the nearby food stands but as you went to take your first step up the aisle stairs you felt a hesitation consume you. Your eyes pulled back towards the curtain, a poisonous curiosity filling them. You weren’t even that hungry and there wasn’t anyone around to scold you so perhaps a little exploration would be a little more desirable.
Rather than up the aisle you walked down it arriving at the stage. You hadn’t procured the best seating in the stands and up close you could far better feel the grandiosity of the stage itself. It was a massive platform taller than even you were. If you were going to explore for your break, you may as well go all the way. You propped yourself atop the stage, a small turn allowed you to see the audience from the actors’ position. Was this what it was like to be a character, not a reader or viewer but one of the very performers themselves? From up here you could hear Névé preparing her costume for the upcoming chapter.
You felt a niggling call to sneak out back and try to speak with Névé; she was one of the more hyped characters throughout the previous chapters. You had been watching this play for a long time and so it was hard to remember every reference; but if you recalled correctly, she was supposed to be a child prodigy who Bennu the Phoenix said would be the most powerful human to enter The Tournament. Apparently, she betrayed humanity to join the white witch though firmly cementing her as one of the story’s villains. Having a chance to speak with her personally was enticing indeed but you had something else you were even more interested in. You grabbed the red velvet curtain firmly with one hand.
You walked through the curtain.
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Squally was at home, but it wasn’t his home. Ill remembered placements of old furniture he couldn’t quite recall the look of were oddly cramped and littered around. He found himself in front of his parents’ bedroom, his short stumpy child-like arms reached up for the doorknob, he had to hop on his toes to reach the knob but even then, his hands seemed physically incapable of taking hold of the bronze handle. Squally ran his fingers through his full head of blond hair as he pondered what to do.
His contemplation was interrupted by the musical voice of his mother. “Supper is ready!”
A massive grin covered Squally’s chubby face. “Coming mama!” He ran towards the sound of her voice. It was difficult to find the dining room as halls blended into the familiar alleys of the city of Abut. The further he travelled the less of his house he could find and the more of the obtrusive city ghettos took over his labyrinthian landscape.
“Squally supper is getting cold!” His mother called out again with a teasing warmth.
“I’m coming mama!” Squally tried to call out back to the voice but he couldn’t muster the force to carry that voice the required distance. He started to run with more urgency searching for his homely kitchen, corner after corner his house lost its roof, walls grew to entire buildings, his legs grew longer and bulkier. “Mama where are you!?” his voice started to deepen and he ran faster, he had to find her, he had to tell her.
Each step Squally took further into the maze seemed to age him, each step a leap in his life. The twenty-four-year-old Squally turned another corner which led to a fork in the road; to his left, the city crumbled to dust circling around a small puddle in which a small green herb sprouted out of. To his right, the looming buildings grew impossibly tall until they met together at infinity forming an enclosed tunnel lit only by the candles through the building windows. At the end of this manufactured cave on the right, a large, rounded chest sat. “If you don’t come soon there won’t be any supper left for you!” His mother’s cheery call was all he needed to make his decision.
Squally took a step to the right. He entered into the overbearing confines of Abut and approached the chest. A behemoth padlock larger than the chest itself kept it closed. The padlock was a monstrous mass of solid metal, the keyhole at its center smaller than a nail, it was an impossible barrier to surpass. A mighty gust of wind bellowed out of the seam of the chest’s lid. The mighty force pressed against Squally tearing off his adult body and washing it away leaving behind only his child self.
A previously unfelt weight spawned in Squally’s pant pocket. The young boy pushed his pudgy hands in and pulled out the offending object. It was an incredibly heavy thing that he could hardly hold with all his strength; a small bronze key so miniscule that he couldn’t possibly believe that all of that weight came from it. It was such a heavy thing, such a burdensome thing that the naïve child wanted nothing more than to get rid of it. He cast the key away into the padlock mechanism and with a resonant click the chest was unlocked.
The raucous wind emanating from the chest immediately stopped and its lid gently popped open. The unknowing boy entered the chest and its lid slammed closed. “Supper has gone cold now.”
He heard the wrenching fusion of fists on husk shouting from the outside of the chest. The scared boy alone and trapped in the dark chest curled into a corner placing his hands over his ears trying to blot out the bloody sound of thumping flesh. No matter how far he buried his head the sound was still painfully loud. Each visceral collision aging his body, shifting his clothes. The chest began to leak, a red and green paint oozing down over his body carving a painful narrative into him.
A silence fell over. Squally, the older monk opened his eyes to a nothingness. A complete void of ubiquitous darkness. It was only the man left with his own chilling breath. The world seemed different now, more concrete than just before. Though more self-aware, he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming or if perhaps this darkness, he found himself in was something other.
Like that, in the darkness he was trapped, he waited in the nothingness as hours turned to days turned to weeks. In the void he had none other than his own mind for accompaniment, and that accompaniment was a stirring torrent of conflicting lashes. Anger and regret washed along with fear and desperation. An impossible concoction of conflicting ideas battled for his brain until finally his thoughts were caught by a light. A sudden glint in the distance.
There was no land for the man to walk upon so instead he moved forward simply by the thought of the very concept. He approached the white dot and as he did another appeared and another. A rapid cascade of dots littered the void like the tapestry of a night sky. As he approached the nearest dot, he saw that this placed had appeared so similarly to the night because it was the night. He stood before a gargantuan star, a raging ball of ionizing fusion. Huge tentacles of cosmic demolition reached out and lashed at the universe.
The star he stood at was not his own, the heat it exuded was unmatched by even the hottest of summer days and it glowed in a blinding blue light rather than the yellow he was accustomed to on his home planet. Five rocky planets orbited around this blue star, one of these planets, like a cracked egg, had been burst open from one side discharging its inner magma out into the solar system.
Squally watched this planetary decimation in stunned awe when he heard the sudden chime of a bell. A small pink rhombus suddenly grew out of thin air. Or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. Squally’s attention was taken away from the strange sight by the chime of a second bell off to his side. At this new location, a small blue cuboid grew. Another bell chimed and another and another. Soon a large crowd of diversely colored geometry appeared each shifting and transforming all warping through their own complex incomprehensible deluge of shapes. The final form each colored entity took was different, some looked vaguely like animals even human, while others were completely foreign abstractions that Squally’s mind couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
The collection of beings did not seem to notice Squally’s presence as they took turns humming out mystifying melodies, some occasionally interrupting others. The music that echoed out from their forms battled with Squally’s mortal ears hardly grasping at even the most minute sensibility, each sound and vibration an estranged otherworldly concoction that Squally didn’t even know was possible to form. Squally could only relent and call the sound singing for it was the only thing his mind could muster to digest this observance. The entities, oblivious of the mental decimation they caused on this unnoticed onlooker, all hovered around that shattering planet occasionally shifting and morphing in its direction as they sang.
The collective song finally concluded as an orange entity that looked vaguely similar to two crosses hovering on either side of a continent sized pyramid moved forward. The pyramid at the entity’s center folded open revealing within a monolithic eye that shined like a brilliant star, far brighter than the literal star floating in the distance. An orange ray of divine glow blasted out of the eye and struck the planet.
Squally shut his eyes from the blinding flare and when he opened his eyes again the planet and all of those beings were gone.
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Squally was suddenly awoken by the chime of a bell. A small pink rhombus grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Squally holding a glowing parchment: It read.
You have been invited to The Tournament
You are The Ascetic