//------------------------------// // The Living God // Story: A Song of Storms: Shattered Skies // by Sigur024 //------------------------------// Vigild shivered, the ache in his wings becoming more troublesome as the air became colder. He had been on the wing since dawn, his warband flying in a flock behind him as they made their way towards Angenholt. The light of the setting sun behind him was weak, its thin rays struggling through the craggy peaks and into this harsh mountain realm. The great mountain itself now loomed before him, and the lights of the city promised a soft bed and warm hearth. Far below, the districts and boroughs of the great city spread, clinging to spurs and resting in the chasms of Angenholt’s flanks. Smoke rose from every chimney, and great flocks of griffons flew every-which-way on their business. Lining the lowest part of each gully and valley were workshops and forges, eagerly consuming the iron drawn from the bones of the mountain, their bellows and drop-hammers powered by the hot springs that rose miraculously from the rock around the highest of peaks. Vigilds eye followed the broad roads that lead up towards the summit, filled with carts and wagons of all kinds winding their way towards the higher districts. There, a thin frozen mist hung in the air where the mountain winds did not scour the streets, and the halls of nobles and great families stretched high towards the sacred peak. Vigild dipped his wing and dove, leading his warband down towards a high square bordered by towers and battlements. No griffons flew higher than that point on the mountain, the gusting winds too treacherous to allow it. The young tercel touched down on the icy cobbles, his talons slipping for a moment before he steadied himself. His warband did the same, eager to rest after a long journey. A group of guards detached themselves from the shadows at the base of the walls and marched towards Vigild. One, dressed in the red livery of a clan Vigild did not recognise, spoke first. “What business have you, lowlander?” Vigild pulled the amulet from around his neck and held it out towards the tercel. Seeing the striking talon embossed upon the silver, the guard dipped his head in a bow. “Of course, my lord. The hall of Magnus lies at the top of the temple district. Only those chosen may pass there. Your warband must find quarters in the mountainside district.” Vigild nodded and motioned to one of his favoured lackeys. He could deal with that. Leaving his warband, Vigild began his solitary climb towards the temple district. On the other side of the walled square the great buildings of nobles flanked him on both sides, leaning in closer and closer over the street, their faces turning in to display the finery of their carvings and ornamentation. Slowly the mansions and halls began to fade away, replaced by the clustered shrines and mausoleums of great heroes as the walls of the temple district loomed high ahead. Here he joined other pilgrims, all climbing the icy road towards the peak in silent contemplation. Most stopped at the walls, laying talons on the freezing stone, as close to the home of the gods as their station would allow. Vigild marched silently through the great gates in the wall, the warrior-seers parting before him as they saw the amulet around his neck. The arched hall through the walls seemed to stretch on forever, lined by great firepits that could swallow most of the buildings of Darkwood whole, and just kept the biting cold at bay. The visages of the gods peered down at Vigild from the columns, inspecting the insect that dared to come to their realm. The skulls of seers long since passed stared vacantly ahead from their places in the walls, towards where the light of the outside world shone again. Vigild felt as if he were suffocating, the shadows crowding around him as the path narrowed. Suddenly the space opened up into a massive plaza, the natural shelf on the mountainside supposedly the place where griffonkind was first moulded by the gods. Here even the temples clinging to the inside of the wall seemed to shrink back in reverence to the peak, the summit of the world, and the place most sacred to all griffons. All the temples save one. A great hall stood alone on the plateau, carved of grey mountain rock, its triangular arches and buttresses reminiscent of ancient tombs found throughout griffon lands. Vigild found himself drawn towards it, his eyes following the tales inlaid in gold on the rock, of heroes and warriors from the dawn of griffonkind carving out a place for their people. Suddenly the great oak doors of the hall loomed before him. Vigild laid a talon on the wood and hesitated just a moment, then slipped inside. The whole hall was filled with noble griffons, all huddled together and speaking in hushed tones. Vigild pushed through the crowd, half-listening to their murmured conversation. It was much warmer here, the air still and thick with the smell of incense. Braziers full of hot coals stood on the flagstones at regular intervals, between the tall pillars that stretched up to where the roof was hidden by a smoky haze. Vigild pushed through the huddled tercels and found himself standing before a massive table, which he had to stand on hindlegs to peer over. The cloudstone surface had been painstakingly carved into a map of Dioda, spread out as if the viewer were flying high above it. Mountains, forests and valleys had been shaped across it, and small trickles of water showed the paths of rivers and streams. Resting all across it were small figurines, all busts of pegasi and griffons in marble. Casting his eye over to where his homeland lay, Vigild was stunned to see a perfect image of his father set atop Darkwood Valley, every scar and line on his face represented in the pure white replica. Tearing his eyes from the map, Vigild looked up towards the end of the hall. There, on a high dais overlooking the congregation sat a massive throne of black, glassy stone. Pelts of beasts stranger and more monstrous than Vigild could recognise were draped over its hard, faceted surface. The wall behind it was festooned with weapons, rune-etched swords, great axes and drake-hunting lances. In pride of place above the throne itself hung a massive golden sword, easily longer in the blade than Vigilds wingspan and too huge for any griffon to be able to heft. “Does he really hope to awe us with pageantry?” Vigild asked himself. “Do not speak ill of our host, whelp, lest he hear you.” A nearby tercel hissed. Vigild rounded on him, puffing himself up to his full height, ready to strike first if his honor demanded it.But he never got the chance, as the thunderous boom of the great doors opening froze him in place. All heads turned towards the portal, suddenly silent. There, silhouetted against the outside world was a massive figure, easily twice as tall as any tercel in the room. It advanced, nobles and warriors backing out of its path lest they be crushed beneath his talons. His golden brown pelt was flawless, not showing a single mark or scratch which would betray a scar, and the ash-grey plumage of his head and neck caught the light like raw iron. Magnus. He scanned the crowd before him, a confident smirk upon his beak. A strange wind seemed to follow him, catching the threads of smoke from incense and curling it around his form. He passed around the map and close to Vigild, the young tercel craning his neck to look up at the griffons face. His breath caught in his throat as Magnus met his gaze, just for an instant. His eyes seemed to shine with the depth of ages. Vigild trailed in the massive tercel’s wake, feeling drawn to that mighty being as he proceeded towards his throne, all eyes fixed upon him. He stepped up onto the dais and turned towards the congregation. Rearing up, he extended a talon towards the open doors of the hall, and with a motion of his fingers they slammed shut with a blast of freezing air. “My chosen sons. Welcome to Angenholt,” Magnus purred. Vigild could feel Magnus’ baritone voice deep in his chest, like the beat of a war drum. He felt small and weak before him, falling to his haunches as he gawped up at the sculpted perfection that was this colossus. “My children,” Magnus spoke. “Your Chieftains, your Lords cower before the Pegasi. They fear their armies, their swords, and their discontent. They surrendered your honour, your freedom and your kin to the prey-beasts that dare to challenge their betters. They are not worthy. “I have watched over griffonkind since its infancy, since your ancestors fought to claim this land from the monsters of the wilds. I have watched since time immemorial when my children ranged from sea to sea, hunting and warring and multiplying. I have watched the greatest of heroes in their final moments, commending their souls to Valhalla. “I have heard your suffering. I have seen the shame you endure. I have heard your desperation. In my winds and in my words, I warned the pegasi what was to come, but they are a cruel, honorless race. My patience does not share in my immortality. Soon, you warlords shall take the fight to the pegasi, and drive the Cirran Empire back to cower in their walled cities like cattle in a pen.” He extended a talon towards the map, and the bust of a pegasus lifted from the map and into his grasp, carried by an unnatural funnel of air. He held it between thumb and forefinger, holding it where his audience could see it. Vigild recognised its likeness from the coins struck by the Cirrans. Haysar, the emperor who enslaved griffonkind and stole his mother and then his brother from him. “It is time for griffonkind to break its shackles,” Magnus continued. “In a few short weeks, my plan will come to fruition and the great war will begin. But there is work to be done first. We must show your kin that even the most downtrodden of my sons can reclaim their honour. Vigild, Grigori, Aurel. Step forwards.” Vigild rose to his feet and came before the foot of the throne, as did the other tercels called. They were both as young as Vigild, barely old enough to take the oath. “I grant to you this duty- take your warbands to the pegasus hamlet of Viridi. There, hundreds of griffons toil as slaves to the pegasi. Free them, tear the walls of the villas down, and return my children to their homeland. They shall be worthy of Valhalla.” Vigild bowed before Magnus, quaking as the others were. Raising his head, he could see the Herald in the shadows behind the throne, a knowing smile playing across his beak. “And to you, my warriors, great nobles and cheiftains,” Magnus continued. “A trial. The honour of leading this war shall fall to one of you, as it fell to one of you in the Dawn War. You shall compete in a tourney to win this prize, and all griffonkind shall know your name! Go now and prepare, my sons, tomorrow you fight!” The crowd cheered their assent, the hall ringing with their cries. Vigild heard none of it, only the voice of his living god.