Chronicles of an Age of Darkness
Tales of Darkness
By Daniel ‘Hugh Cook’ Daly
The Wordguild and the Warsmiths
Olo Malan is a world beset by terror of every order. Yet in the universe of Bera Shambala, which is connected to Olo Malan by a portal of another Worldring which is rarely connected to, known only by the ‘Bragmen’ of Chomba Pass in the far northern reaches of Tameran, there exists two fundamental organisations. The Wordguild and the Warsmiths.
Now the Wordguild is based simply on that – Words. And, so it is taught every generation to all and sundry who will listen to the splendid message of salvation as taught by the Wordguild, by the Words of Power was all that is created. And what created all that is? Well, that is the divine mystery, as they rightly say. Thus, words – language – communication – was the true saviour of men, and every word of knowledge honoured, cherished, and taught as truly perfect. The way of enlightenment was thus truly enshrined in the dictionaries of power, the heart and mind of every servant of the Wordguild.
Now the Warsmiths opposed the Wordguild, not out of any deeply thought out philosophy, but rather a simple and banal penchant for that most barbarous of activities – war.
Thus these two powers dominated the hearts of Bera Shambala. The wordguild to bring the salvation of knowledge and education to the world, the warguild to tear it apart.
And thus it was.
And thus it is.
And thus so it shall be.
Toguran Loupaan was a confused individual. You had to be with one parent, the mother superior, the honourable chief member of the town’s wordguild cult, and the other, the father dominant, an old fashioned Warsmith, bent on eternal dreams of conquest. Living with the two of them had become – well – quite insufferable, born with the power of a humility greater than that of mortal men. It had to be, for they warred with each other of a constancy greater than the fluidity of the tides of the ocean.
Toguran had a girlfriend. Say Duet. Say was a very attractive girl, and his mother always emphasised that with a very powerful name like ‘Say’ which was the heart of Word Power, she would indeed make a most excellent wife one day. Toguran didn’t disagree. ‘As long as she is good in bed,’ was the summation of his father’s wisdom on the issue, and so far Toguran had not been disappointed on that particular issue since the climax to his 16th years birthday party.
Toguran had a destiny with Mother Superior. To bring the power, knowledge and salvation of a good education to Bera Shambala. He did her no great honour – he was a dunce in school.
Toguran had a destiny with Father Dominant. Neither did he bring him any great honour – a ladybug was more threatening.
But Say Duet loved him, despite his great fears, and lack of bravery, and when he finally won her heart one particular night, in an adventure about to be chronicled, she verily agreed to be his wife.
Skrag Cromento was a thick enough fella. He couldn’t spell, could bearly speak with a mouthful of stutters usually eventuating, and he was none to pretty to boot. But he fancied Say Duet, and wanted her for his bed.
The night got along quite well, in the local Lord’s lads birthday party, to which a number of the local underlings children did find invites. Skrag, a fighter, was fortunate, and so were Say Duet and Toguran Loupaan.
Skrag spent most of the night attempting to persuade the delicious say to the back parlour, but say refused, and Toguran, ever the wimp, felt safe enough not to interfere, nor would he, yet he trusted Say’s loyalty anyway.
And then, coming into the main living room once more, when festivities around midnight were at their peak, Skrag pulled down his pants in front of all, an erect penis of 7 inches standing at attention, and said verily to his lady desired ‘Wel, we, we, well, wel, well, ha ha ha ho how bb bb b b bout it, b b b b bab babe.’
Say looked, gasped, and was almost tempted.
But, for the first time in his life, Toguran became a man.
Firstly, words not normally within his power of speech, but taught incessantly since youth by mother superior sprang to his defense.
‘I say, you son of a motherless goat. Your trivial, minor and indeed pathetic genitalia would make a squirrel embarrassed. They are indeed large – when compared with those of a gnat.’
Skrag looked at Toguran dumbfounded.
‘Oh, you are too dense to understand my profound dialogue of eloquent wisdom. You really are a dunderhead, are you not,’ he continued, again with a toffee nosed accent.
‘I shall simplify.’
And then, his mother finally and rightfully proud of her son, his father’s joy finally borne as well.
‘Get your hands of my bitch, pigbrain.’
And Toguran, finding courage beyond himself, strode forward, grabbed Skrag’s erect manhood, gave it an Almighty yank, punched him in the face, and that was the end of the trouble.
Toguran was Say’s hero.
4 years later, three little Loupaan’s running around his new living room, Toguran was celebrating. He was now the chief man in the village when it came to the Wordguild, and he and his father were recruiting men to start a campaign to conquer life, the universe and everything.
For Say, her man’s shagging abilities had notably improved since the illustrious day he came to her rescue, and she could now not wish for another.
Besides, with 3 children, a fourth on the way, and a herd of pigs out the back, what more could one ask for from a citizen of Yalth Tebrek, in the backwaters island of Sang? What more indeed.
The Wild and the Wrathful
Bleatin Blattin was a curious young lad, of 14, hopeful to soon reach 15 and his inheritance, when, deemed of suitable enough age, the high priest of the cult of cockroach worship, the cockies, instructed his adherents to convert Bleatin, a suitable enough candidate, to the cult, in the hopes of finding a new priest for the local chapel. Bleatin was reluctant.
Severus Jander poked him. ‘You are hardly a wise priest, Bleatin.’
‘I am only an acolyte,’ responded Bleatin dejectedly to the wild Severus’ insult.
‘Is not an acolyte at least to dress properly in fine cockie vestments?’
‘Who cares,’ responded Bleatin. ‘I was forced into the religion by mommie.’
‘Pathetic,’ mocked Severus. Bleatin didn’t care. Severus wandered off.
Mishnah caressed his arm. ‘Don’t worry about Severus. He is only jealous. His family are devoted Cockies – he probably wanted the job.’
‘He can have it,’ responded Bleatin, still unconvinced on his life’s apparent calling.
‘But the Cockroach created all and loves us,’ responded Mishnah. ‘And they serve us faithfully, eating our discarded waste. They are truly beautiful creatures.’
‘Their dirty,’ stated Bleatin honestly.
‘Don’t blaspheme,’ warned Mishnah. ‘The priests will cut your head off.’
‘They can stuff themselves with cockroaches as far as I am concerned,’ said the wrathful Bleatin.
Mishnah just sighed.
When he had reached 19, and appointed Priest of the Local chapel, Bleatin had had his fill of cockroach sermons. I mean, how many ways could you praise the wisdom of the humble cockroach anyway? And so, completely buggered with it all, he made his plan – get kicked out, and promote a successor.
It was the sabbath. Bleatin addressed the audience. He looked at Severus. ‘You would make a good priest,’ said Bleatin, looking at Severus. The audience clapped. ‘The Cockroach knows, I can’t bloody handle the job. I mean, how many ways can you praise a stupid insect.’
The audience went silent, shocked.
‘They eat our waste. They are dirty and spread disease. They are hard to kill. They really are a noxious beast.’
The blasphemy was too much for the audience. Severus’ father stood. ‘You are not worthy of the calling of a Cockie Priest? You, you are a blasphemer.’
The people murmured agreement.
‘What shall we do with him?’ someone cried.
‘Strip him of his vestments. And stick him in the shit,’ said Severus from his seat of new power. Nobody disagreed.
4 days later, not really smelling too much any more, despite being in the bog for most of the afternoon, Bleatin was a relieved man. They didn’t care about him anymore. Thank the cockroach for that.
Mishnah showed up, inevitably, caressed his arm, and said. ‘Well, I do love the cockroach, and will always be faithful, but I think I can handle a heretic as wonderful as you. As long as you stay out of the shit,’ she said, suddenly noticing a lingering smell.
I’ll try,’ said Bleatin, and Mishnah caressed him again.
The Wishfaerie and the Warcry
Bera Shambala, once connected to the Nexus and thriving, long fallen into disuse by the powers of the Nexus, the experimental world deemed far more trouble than it was worth, for even the Nexus had scruples in the divine manipulations of probabilities they were involved in, was a hell of a planet.
Modeled on Olo Malan, Bera Shambala had been born in the 'Pool of Certainties' by the great 'Alpha-Wurm', to whom it was believed the siring of all decent and credible creations belonged to. Yet, the planetary body having come off the production line, the shapers of merriment, who had completed a 10,000 year secret surveillance of Olo Malan, decided, in their laboratorical genetic manipulations of the forebearers of Bera Shambala's great race of noble creations, to manipulate destiny, through the copulative instincts implanted in scientifically genetic sureties, for a sarcastic alternative creation to the majesty of Olo Malan - a mirror as it were - and utilize suggestive mind manipulation - indeed the voices of the gods - to achieve their hypothesized purposes.
Yet a good while back the voice of the great Alpha-Wurm had verily convicted the shapers of merriment of their nasty proleptic panderings, and they had simply left things be.
And now Bera Shambala produced uncanny resemblances to Olo Malanese culture, albeit with an ironic twist, on a regular, uncanny basis.
Druldruguser Dragonfart Douay was a bastard - quite literally - born out of wedlock, raised by a rather ugly prostitute with a famed missing front tooth and poor hygiene, Gelba Douay constantly assured the sensitive Druldruguser his father had been the most handsome and noble of men, despite Druldruguser intimately aware of the gutter class scum which employed mother's cheap, and quite nasty, services.
'I will now find my father,' said the boasting 16 year old. For he had gone to the pool of wishes, and spent a coin and prayed to the wishfaerie, and she had promised him his heart's deepest desire.
Gelba shrugged. He was off his head again.
'Were is he, mother?'
'Troldok. He is in the palace there.'
And so, taking off for the city of Troldok, 100 leagues up the highway hence northwards, he came to the palace of Troldok, sought entry into the duke's presence, and declared himself, in front of the nobles, son of the duke to the maiden Gelba Douay. The laughter from the court was, indeed, hysterical.
But the duke looked at this poor unfortanuate, noticed the familiar looks on his face, and said 'Indeed, scumlad, I think I can help you. Take him down to the shitman.'
So, being led away, out to the back arse of Troldok palace, he came into the presence of quite an odorous reality, the working quarters of the shitman, who dealt with the various body waste concerns of the palace of Troldok, for it infamously had no plumbing since the losing of a dispute between warring parties and a gamble lost, the loser forgoing plumbing for a three score years and ten, Druldruguser confronted a man, twice his age, yet his spitting image, arms covered in faeces, dealing with some revolting looking substance, who just smiled at him.
'Your Druldruguser, I take it,' said the man.
Druldruguser nodded miserably, staring aghast at his rather pathetic father in his. rather pathetic occupation.
'Well, don't worry too much about it. If you end up in the shit like me, the pay is not too bad in the end.'
And Druldruguser bellowed in a disappointed voice of war 'Dog's bloody Testicles!'
And the shapers of merriment would have smiled at this ironic encounter.
And the world turned.
And the world turned.
Druldruguser on the Dope
'It is not wise to be so addiced to Dope, young son,' said the Shitman of Troldok Palace.
'Anything is better than being apprentice to a father who takes shit from the palace of a bastard Duke and processes it as sewerage. I need to escape this madness.'
'Take yourself to maid Delilah. She shall relieve thee of they load of frustrations.'
'Not just that load,' sniggered Druldruguser. The father responded in kind, but when he boasted of bedding a certain Gelba the Prostitute, who Druldruguser reminded him was his very own mother, sobriety once more ensued.
'Drug use keeps me sane in this world,' bemoaned druguser. 'Takes my mind away from the pointlessness of being.'
'If you want meaning, consult the philosophers. Ours is to deal with the shit in life, and get by as best we can. Rogan encouraged Druguser, young Darren in his real name, with this word, and Darren decided, after another session, he would fleet away to the hills and find himself a wise man. He boozed a while, got high, then the following morning, early, he departed.
Deep into the hills around the city he sought, and found a cave of monks praying, who pointed up the hill. Darren climbed, and found the seer at the top, having a nap. He woke him. The man came to his sense, and rattled his bowl at him. Darren threw in a few coppers. 'Deal with the shit,' said the wise man, after hearing Darren's story.
He returned home, looked at his father that evening, smelling bad, but washing with soap, and signed up at the Duke's palace with the master of home affairs for his father's official aide in his work. He wouldn't knock back safe enough money in the end. It was work which nobody wanted, but it paid. And that was a certainty he couldn't afford to live without to maintain his druguse.
And so the crudities went on, and Darren Druguser faced up to the realities of life, in a corner of the world in Bera Shambala, in a rather smelly universe of the Nexus.