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Like
Father, Like Daughter,
So
Seram’s child strides the earth,
With
strife in Her eyes,
With
war in Her heart,
To
conquer and take.
Like
Mother, Like Daughter,
So
Taurkémad’s child strides the earth,
With
pain in Her mind,
With
destruction in Her soul,
To
bereave and take.
Anonymous
dedication to a booklet on Middage,
Found in burned ruin of Middage temple near Northerton, Cayaboré (2958
A.E.)
Rejected
She is by Her Divine father,
For
no noble thought of combat fills Her heart,
With
disease and ill mind She seeks Her victories to gather,
Clad
in night’s darkness, She stands apart,
Wreathed
by the pit’s stench, She flings Her dart,
Wounding
not the mortal, but the soul of her father.
Ancient
poem on Middage, attributed to Remohkreeg of Chazevo (12th
century A.E.)
“’Disease
is natural. Nay, ‘t is more than that. Disease is Divine!’
“The
madman cackles, then laughs out loud as lightning rushes through the
darkness, illuminates his face of scars, of pustules, the ill-blooded
eyes. ‘And you, child,’ he continues, leans down to the girl cowering
on the ground before him, ‘will do the Divine work for me now.’
“She
does not cry. Her tears have dried hours before, when the madman dragged
her from her bed, out in the stormy night. She fought him, yet his grip
was inhumanly strong. Now her muscles are tired. She cannot move. With
utmost effort she asks the one word. ‘Why?’
“The
madman laughs. ‘Why? Because it is as the Goddess Middage commands! It
is her work I have done, it is her work that is now yours!’
“Lightning
flashes anew. It brightens his face, and she sees that the pustules are
opening. Yellowish pus is flowing out. Blood drips from his eyes. He
must be in pain, she thinks and wonders how the madman can ignore it.
‘Time, child, it is time,’ he says calmly. He kneels down. Rain washes
over his face, opens wound upon wound, redoubling the flood of bodily
fluids.
“’Do
not touch me,’ the girl labors to say. She has seen fifteen winters this
year, has seen her parents succumb to plague, has seen her brothers felled
by influenza. She should be accustomed to sights as dire as this madman.
She is not.
“The
madman coughs. ‘I must, child,’ he says yet hesitates. ‘You must
understand that ours is not evil work. We walk the earth, and we gather
illness to us. We take the pain of the earth upon us. We contain it, we
keep it from those who –‘ He coughs again. Blood flows freely from his
mouth, and he cannot speak any longer.
“The
girl stares at him. Is that his purpose? Is that what he intends for her?
To be ill forevermore? She wants to run. Her legs do not follow her
commands.
“But…
She wonders. If she could take away disease, collect it, then – Would
that not mean that less people would sicken? That, had she sacrificed
herself for her family, her parents and brothers would still be alive and
well?
“She
still wonders when the madman embraces her and presses his body close to
her. She cannot move, feels herself drenched with the rain, the blood, the
pus. There is more, yet, there is pain. A pain unlike that which she has
experienced before, and it is in her mind. So much hurt, so much darkness
pours into her, and then –
“The
madman falls back from her. His mouth is open, filled with blood. His eyes
are blood, and like glass. He is dead.
“She
finds there are tears left in her. She cries, while the rain washes off
the madman’s fluids. The drops of fresh rain cannot sweep off what she
knows is now harbored within her, the illness and disease. She raises her
hand, turns it over to look at the palm. It’s itching, and she sees why.
There is a brand on her palm, a sigil of an eye, a tear rolling out of one
side, a drop of blood out of the other.
“The
girl knows what the brand means. She belongs to Middage now. Her body has
been corrupted by disease, and she faces all the ills imparted by
sickness. She carries it all now. She is the container, and she will look
for more disease to put inside her, to corrupt herself further.
“But
will she keep the disease to herself, or will she spread it? She fears the
answer. She does not wish to die, although death already churns within
her. She stands up, walks over the fallen body of the madman – and then
stops. Where did the strength come from? Where is her exhaustion?
“A
gift of the Goddess, she understands. She walks on back home, to go back
to bed, and in the morning she will speak with her aunt and remaining
family.”
Traditional,
unknown origin,
Excerpted from “Tales of the Lands of Gushémal” by Hierod Suto,
Sirap, 3025 A.E.
“What
drives a man or woman to take up the mantle of Middage’s clergy? How can
one decide that disease is holy and to be preserved, even spread, rather
than contained?
“I
am a priestess of Decalleigh. In my years of service I have seen the pain
and suffering that comes with disease. I have done my best to lessen the
pain, to cure and eradicate disease. There is nothing attractive about a
boy spitting blood, crying red tears over the fallen body of his mother.
So often have I witnessed scenes like that, I often fear that I grow
callous over such. It hasn’t happened yet, thank the Great Healer for
that.
“How
can it be anything but insanity for anyone to choose the path of dispersing
disease? It is the only answer I can find, and I am glad I am not beholden
to the goddess Sykee. Were I in her service, it would be my duty to seek
ways of healing the insanity. As it is, I am of Decalleigh, and I can wish
the Middage clerics to fall dead from their own diseases, without ever
infecting another soul.”
Hâil
Erin, Decalleigh priestess,
Chazevo
“Middage
priests’re the scum o’the earth. Literally, I mean, not just because
of what they do.
“Y’see,
there’re plenty of dark gods in the world. Gods that you wouldn’t
wanna meet in a dark alley, if you catch my drift. But take Shenaumac,
f’r instance – now that’s a bloody bastard of a god. A liar, a
murderer. Killed his own brother and sister gods, f’r cryin’ out loud!
And yet, take a good look at his followers. Some o’them’re your usual
run of cutthroats and thugs, sure. But nonetheless, you’re likely to
find some princes worshipping Shenaumac, some people who have all the
riches in the world and wanna make sure their dastardly deeds buy them a
good share o’land in the beyond.
“Or
Taurkémad the Torturer. Guess who’s likely to have a statue of her
around his place o’work. Reasonably decent people, if you look at their
standin’ in society, and still worshippers o’dark gods. Just goes with
their lines o’work, I’d say.
“And
then there’s Seram – abyssal flames, most people hate war, don’t
they? With plenty o’good reason, too. I’m a mercenary, and I bloody
hate war. Plenty o’days I wish I’d learned me some good trade so I
could go without killin’ and maimin’ f’r a coupla weeks. Still I do
worship Seram – not as a priest o’course, but still… All right, do
look at a Seram priest. You’ll hear all kindsa noble words about the
importance o’Seram, and how His work is necessary. Sometimes even I
could be convinced. (Prob’ly the reason I’m still in the game, chalk
me up with th’other fools.)
“Middage’s
the daughter of Taurkémad and Seram, but there’s nothing noble about
her. Nothing whatsoever. Like she took the worst parts of her parents and
combined them inside her.
“So
I’m asking you: whoever would take up service with Middage? People who
want power? Well, why not choose Shenaumac – a forthright murderer who
has way too much power in the world. (Mind you, this is a mercenary
speakin’.) Trouble is, you’ve gotta have some skill at killin’ or
leastways stealin’ or lyin’ to qualify f’r those ranks. If you’re
a gullible fool who’s lost everythin’ in the world, Shenaumac’s
gonna look at you as prey, but surely not as a predator.
“Same
with Taurkémad, same with Seram. You’ve gotta have some skill, you’ve
gotta have some way of contributin’ t’their – eh – work. Seram,
f’r instance, if you don’t have any skill, He won’t have you as a
priest, He’ll make sure you’re put in the frontline of a skirmish, or
as we call it, th’express road beyond.
“Now
then, what’s left? Only the scum o’the earth. The ones who have no
possible recourse. The ones who yearn to pay others back for their
misfortunes, and who can’t wield a sword, or who can’t take directly
hurtin’ people. Infect them? Oh, sure, that’s not so difficult. You
don’t stab a blade o’metal into their guts. You don’t see the pain
in their eyes. You don’t see yourself takin’ a life.
“Trust
me, it’s not an easy one, that. I’ve killed me plenty o’people, and
I won’t claim any desire to see those folks walkin’ the earth again.
What desires I have in that regard is that it wasn’t me doin’ the
killin’, or leastways the one who’s gotta remember the killin’.
Takes some guts o’your own to do that, over and over again. If you’re
a coward, though…
“How
much bravery does it take to cough on someone, walk away and hear about
that someone’s death a while later?”
Tàf
Holass, Mercenary (ca. 3151 A.E.)
Read
on in the second part on September 05 2003!
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