K-Zu-Ziro
07-08-15, 03:50 AM
SECTION:1 – Hostoland
One thousand, three hundred and eight years ago, a calcareous proboscis drove a many layered egg into the roots of an ancient tree. Having secured the rebirth of its species, the egg's originator dragged its wretched self away in search of undeserved serenity prior to expiration. The offspring—a ravenous parasite—wrapped its thoughts around the bounty of life, squeezing the grand old landmark that had lived for a hundred years at the summit of a hilltop. Verdant glows faded with each season into the inescapable gravity of obsidian. Its bark broke and cracked, turning shades of stone and oil as the transformation proceeded. Living in the mind, but dead in the fibres—the tree decorated its sorrowful boughs with inky leaves that rustled without sound. Via symbiosis, the tree gained an awareness of itself and desires began to bloom. Albeit, desires moulded amongst those of its alien passenger.
Its dire magnificence absorbed worshippers from the ranks of the indigenous people. It was named and became the Mahia T-Zu-Hosto. Roots, bulging from the earth, liquidised rock and froze soil—side-by-side, to the disbelief of the learned. Rotund mammalian fuzz balls waddled up to the roots and kept their meat from the hunt cold and fresh in the frigid earth, and when ready dragged the flesh centimetres to the side in order to cook atop the unbelievable lava. With their floppy ears as anchors, they created headdresses from the black foliage to signify status among the tribe. And as the years encroached, Spring dances, Summer parties, Winter feasts and Autumn harvest festivals were held annually in the increasingly gargantuan tree's powerful shade. What emerged as a parasite and victim relationship between tree and egg, became a three way symbiosis including the Hostians (they had a different name before they worshipped the tree, but its telepathic influence over them had scrubbed clean any remnants of their original culture).
Contentedness flourished among the Cult of the Black Tree, the name given to the Hostians by outsiders. An unprecedented period of peace blessed the centuries. Professions were established outshining the rival sentient species in the surrounding area; architects, doctors, physicists, philosophers, chemists, engineers, et al. The work of the architects, though, was most evident in the miles encircling Mahia T-Zu-Hosto. Bulbous domes peaked the majestic temples dedicated to the Black Tree. Each family was provided a home with running water in addition to a heating system for the Winter and a cooling system for the summer, based—of course—on the tree's root magic. Metallurgy and natural gas allowed street lamps to light the yellow brick streets. The high chiefs of old had been replaced by an elected council and their meetings took place in a palatial hall wedged amongst the ornate churches and temples of the city's centre. The crowning achievement of the architect's guild was the university, in which they—and other professionals—trained the next generation.
SECTION:2 – Summer Festival
Hidden from the splendid success of the Hostians, the egg had split open and from it grew gelatinous tentacles. Creeping and stretching tentacles. The muscle-strong arms flexed and tensed to make hollow bough and root alike, running central to every offshoot of the innocent tree. Its grip on the host had expanded beyond merely mental and grew to encompass the physical also. T-Zu-Hosto strained each branch to point its thick cloak of black leaves directly at the beating sun, ravaging all the energy it could. Tar leaked as saliva from the breaks in its bark, Mahia T-Zu-Hosto could no longer hide its slobbering hunger. For centuries the molten rock had heated and the frozen earth had cooled, but in this penultimate developmental phase those magics enveloping the tree's roots weakened and failed. The T-Zu-Hostian priests, their minds swayed by the reach of the maturing being inside the tree, began to prophesise the end times. In deep trances, mind controlled, they whispered, “The Child of the Black Tree God will kill us all”. This haunting phrase was suddenly ubiquitous. The words were scrawled in black paint across the façade of every civic building in the city, mocking the arrogance of Hostoland's marvellous architects.
In spite of the ominous predictions of the clergy, the year's Summer Festival went ahead as planned. Bright banners sailed between the graffiti ridden buildings, street food was prepared without a sense of moderation while red and white petals tossed in celebration quickly clogged the storm drains along Hostoland's thoroughfare. Furry citizens ambled hand-in-hand with family members along the main street and towards the tree that formed the very core of their entire civilisation.
“Ma, can I have some shells???” whined a little boy to his smiling mother.
“What on earth for?”
“I get a roasted deer hock every year, maaaaaaaaaaaaa—come oooooooon!”
“Alright then, go on, go on” she said pulling enough shells out of her pocket for the little one.
“You're the best”, the alternative coins were snatched from paw to paw and he was gone.
Away from the melody of the festival, the ordained sat in basement prayer rooms, desperately trying to commune with their deity. Silence. The incessant influence in their head that had guided their worship all their lives was gone. All that was left was to make plans for the coming apocalypse. To observe the wishes of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto. Finally, ending their prayers, came the toll of the city's bell. This year's gong rang in their ears with a deafening cold. Priestess and priest alike smiled reassuringly as they exited the churches surrounding T-Zu-Hosto. Joining left hand to right, a virtually universal gesture of piety, they moved through the parted crowd and kneeled before the tree.
One minute's silence was to be observed, in accordance with tradition.
A cough.
Deep breaths.
A Sniffle.
Quiet nibbles as the boy stole a bite or two of his juicy hock.
The dull clatter of a pocket full of iridescent shells hitting the yellow brick pavement.
10 seconds remained.
9 …
8 …
7 …
6 …
5 …
4 …
3 …
2 …
1 …
A RUPTUROUS CHEER SHATTERED THE SILENCE!!! Everybody threw their arms in the air and pretty petals rained down. Hostians grabbed each other and danced in joyous circles. The summer festival had passed as it had with the success of each year before it. Bellies were full of meat and veg and hearts were at ease. Mahia T-Zu-Hosto still loved its nation of little fuzz balls. It was clear.
SECTION:3 – Magic Spawn
Shedding the veil of hocus pocus, T-Zu-Hosto's trunk bust asunder with a rapidity unfamiliar to most vegetation. Spewing forth came a gangly hexapod, despite being smothered in black goop it was immediately recognisable as an insect. Reminiscent of an afterbirth covered antelope taking its first steps, the Child of the Black Tree God awkwardly rose to a hind leg stance. Towering eight feet tall over the cutesy Hostians, the tallest among them reached three feet even, it hissed like a tropical cockroach calling for a mate. People froze, ran and screamed; each individual taking the course of action they felt best suited to the scenario befalling them. Noon, in the heat of summer, quickly baked the black goop dry. It formed a crust upon a matte black carapace. Veiny cellophane wings emerged from behind the creature, stretching to span ten feet. The appendages buzzed in a blur of superhuman speed. The newborn rose to a hover just above the pool of liquid it had stood in. Six elongated limbs dangled, each tipped with a scythe-like blade. The spawn's bug-eyed head snapped left and right as it quickly digested its surroundings.
The learned—professors, philosophers and priests—had the wherewithal to look beyond the monstrosity. Instead, they spared a gaze for the broken husk which had given birth to the exoskeletal being. Had what was inside the tree become this? Is the tree dead? Was God nothing but a wretched insect all these years? Anybody looking could see, hanging from the open trunk, a tangle of tentacles. They were limp and dead. A rich cherry flush was fading from the tentacles to become a grey white as they examined from a safe distance.
Hiissssssssss!!! GARGHH!!! Blood spilled with an unnerving splatter at the feet of the deer hock boy. A fur-covered Hostoland head with lifeless, glassy eyes rolled into the boy's view. The Child of the Black Tree God was circling above. Then, the head's body followed with a bruising thud after a long fall. The creature swooped down again and buried its stabbing claw in the back of the deer hock boy's head and gave him a final ride into the heavens before, again, dropping the limp body onto the dainty brick paving below. Carnage continued. Street lamps glowed pink through a coat of blood while an intestine snaked down a storm drain and into the city sewers—the chunks of fur-matted flesh brought more colour to the street-scape than the banners and petals had. The festive melody of enjoyment sank into a chorus of disjointed screams.
Safely behind the stained glass of the Church of the Obsidian Leaf, Prof. Duggsteen scribbled furiously into his notepad. His furry little paws sprang back like a typewriter after reaching the end of the page. “This is it!”, his words whistled through the large incisors occupying his little mouth. “If, and it's a big IF—if I can survive this will make a great paper!”. For all his intelligence, Duggsteen seemed to be oblivious to the fact that society as he knew it was coming to a blood-curdling end. Genocide was a hurdle fast approaching when the Professor's eyes widened with surprise.
The limp, white arms of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto warmed to a vigorous red and bolted into the sky, twisting into a thick braid of many tentacles acting as one. The Black Tree God was alive and the demon spawn was its target. It knocked its only child out of the sky before swaddling it to the ground. Duggsteen was pleased to see first hand that the long theorised being within the tree was real. And it was protecting the people. But what was the relationship between bug and tentacle creature? The dog-eared notepad was quickly filled with lovingly scribbled field sketches, annotated in to a degree that belied the time required to produce such detailed notes. Splendid documentation.
Persistence characterised all life. In the glimmering hope of tear swollen eyes a spot of darkness grew. It grew in every living pair of eyes remaining in all of Hostoland. Speedily, all the eyes were jet black marbles. Humming a haunting march in unison, the people walked as drones from their hiding places and into the streets they had fled moments earlier. In perfect formation they retraced the steps along the main street to the base of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto's mighty roots.
Pupil, iris and white returned—the people's eyes were clear again. In spite of their released consciousness, they were not afraid. Their minds were smoothed by the presence of the will of their Lord. Each face in the crowd of thousands smiled through the rodentine twitches of their noses—it made for a powerful juxtaposition against the gory scene.
The crowd had parted for the procession of religious devotees, and now it parted again at the will of the Black Tree God. From the crowd stepped forward a middled-aged female—her greying fur and untidy whiskers made her instantly recognisable as the High Executive Councillor. She came to a stop beside the writhing body of the invertebrate beast. The creature was still safely secured, wrapped breathlessly, in its parent's powerful limbs. Creaking wood began to grind and warp at the centre of the tree, the gaping hole from which the child came was being reshaped by the alien half of T-Zu-Hosto. One tentacle limb broke from the group and made for the Councillor. Mucous goop dampened her fur as The Black Tree God caressed her stubby arm, slowly slicking its limited length, before settling into the palm of her paw. They shared a mutual grip, as though lovers. She was guided by her God into the break in the tree's trunk and sat, justly, on the intricate bark wrought throne that had been created.
“Forgive me, children.”, the High Executive Councillor began. “This is the voice of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto, I know the name you have given me.” Hostoland's elected leader was now a mouthpiece for Hostoland's supreme God. “I know we have grown together for hundreds of years. And I know that my child has murdered some of you, my first brood.” The Black Tree God felt the weight of sorrow; the proud, stout centre of their universe took on the mourning outline of a heartbroken willow—weeping as thought it had always wept.
Passing through the sky, the sun brought an evening perspective to the history of the day. Before darkness, each dismembered body part was carried and placed before the tree. Every pair of hands in the city found work to be done. Priestess and priest prepared clean water to wash away the crusted blood from the hands of the people. A veritable swarm of flies searched the pile of sun roasted meat for the perfect spot on which to lay their maggot-laden eggs. But it was not to be.
Mahia T-Zu-Hosto waved the flies away with a battery of tentacles. An excess of black sap oozed from every crevice in its barky skin. Tentacles scooped up the viscous secretion and lathered it over the pile of dead bodies. Thick, oily mucus made links between limb and torso, brought together bile ducts and organs, formed gel to bridge the gaps between severed spines. Duggsteen noted in on a fresh page that the process was akin to watching the positive and negative ends of a magnet draw together. Vacant smiles persisted amongst the crowd as they watched contently as their loved ones were magically repaired. Each body was correctly gelled together again. There were seams, stitches and cracks. The black caulk used to seal the bodies showed through in these lines. Perfection had alluded the kindly Black Tree God.
“Now to reanimate them.”, the councillor spoke the words of God as a mountainous roar.
The first to stand was the deer hock boy. He was grasping the unfinished treat to his chest, cherishing it, as he came back to life. Black rain descended from the sky, each body speckled with droplets received the miracle of rebirth. Veins filled with blood had been swapped for a slow flow of inky sap, despite pumping the black liquid their hearts hadn't changed—the newly living and the still living closed the distance between them and each family embraced thankfully.
Life restored, Mahia T-Zu-Hosto turned its attention to its errant offspring.
“My name is Mahia T-Zu-Hosto. Your name will be K-Zu-Ziro.”
While the words were spoken aloud by the mouthpiece, they were also placed directly into the mind of K-Zu-Ziro. This species possessed an inherent link between queen and drone. Flailing with an unnatural pace two tentacles shot forward and grabbed the middle pair of arms. “Child, there is a penalty for the crimes you committed against your siblings.” A cringe-worthy snap punctuated the final word, followed by the awfully mortal sound of bodily fluids splattering across the flaxen brickwork—T-Zu-Hosto had removed its offspring's middle arms. “You will live life with four limbs, wingless, as all citizens of Hostoland do. This will serve as a reminder and a bond. We do not share blood with the Hostians, but we will love them, as they love us. We will all live to serve each other and make prosperous our mutually beneficial relationship.” With a painful rip K-Zu-Ziro's wings were also torn away.
Tiring from the physically demanding task of holding every mind of an entire civilisation hostage, the Black Tree God relented. With a residual feeling of happiness each Hostoland family returned to their homes, where eyelids were promptly defeated by the weight of the day's events. They would all sleep for days, before awaking to overgrown grass, rotten food and pets hungry for a fresh bowl of nibbles.
Filling the role of witness, Mahia T-Zu-Hosto had been secretly present for the birth and death of thousands upon thousands of its humble worshippers. Each individual's forlorn panic in the face of loss was woven into the Black Tree God's bark-encased flesh. Unfathomable was the ocean of sentiment, a pulling tide of melancholy the god wore on its brow with pride. Wallowing in sorrow is to pay tribute to the lost, and so Mahia T-Zu-Hosto became a bloated pig of misery. This sad indulgence highlighted its imperfection, a mark against its credentials as a god. Unknown to the telepath, it had spread small black spots of this unsettling experience to each and every Hostian whose mind it had possessed. A memory of bereavement, so distant in the past it was out of focus, but so fresh in the mind, it brought people to tears. Not knowing where this feeling came from, many hid their tears and coupled loneliness with sadness.
SECTION:4 – The Drizzle of an Aleraran Night
With telepathy as a tool, education became simple and speedy. K-Zu-Ziro barely held an independent personality inside its brain, it had become a living extension of its queen. The offspring, genetically weak willed, had come to share every belief and desire of its creator. It held familial affection for the rodent people who worshipped its parent. With that affection foremost in its mind, K-Zu-Ziro gushed with zeal as Mahia T-Zu-Hosto placed a mission in its mind, with a very clear check-list:
1. Investigate foreign nations and report back.
2. Weaken foreign nations in preparation for a future invasion.
3. Spread the religion of the Black Tree God, terminate those who refuse conversion.
4. Secure slaves to serve Hostians as they arrive to colonise new lands.
5. Select a Hostian to serve as your mouthpiece when communicating with others.
6. If captured, end your own life to prevent information falling into enemy hands.
Moonlight silvered the way as the child of the Black Tree God set to leave Hostoland that very night. Its claws made an obvious sound against the brick streets, bringing long whiskered noses to the windows of many houses. With curtains drawn back, the Hostians peered through the glass to watch the monstrous child leave the nest. Said child had selected another child to fulfil the role required for the fifth item on the check-list. It was the deer hock boy, or Digsy as his friends nicknamed him. As with all those who had been resurrected on that day, they bore the scars of the violence. The rear of the boy's head—where K-Zu-Ziro's claw had entered his skull—had a hole filled with black amber. With a weakened version of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto's telepathy, K-Zu-Ziro was able to occupy the mind of the child, rendering him a dumb terminal. K-Zu-Ziro's telepathy was only able to influence little Digsy. As they travelled together, Digsy sat on the bony shoulder of his sibling, strapped in safely with leather strips.
The unrelenting spin of the planet brought day after day to the duo as they journeyed. Hostoland, for all its grandeur, was distant to the rest of the world. The rodent people and their symbiotic tree god were isolated by natural boundaries: mountains, rivers, seas. Days became weeks before K-Zu-Ziro's nightmarish form was first seen by a Dark Elf, they had crossed the border into Alerar.
Scouting for a nearby fort, the Dark Elf was understandably alarmed. She, holding the advantage of being unseen, crouched amongst shrubbery atop a small hill. Mouth agape, she saw a giant invertebrate encased in a matte black exoskeleton, lanky, snapping pincers completed each arm, while its legs buried stabbing claws into the earth to stay balanced. When the rolling clouds cleared and the day's light illuminated the face of the creature, she grimaced with disgust. Its bony mask was dominated by glossy bug eyes, each oval was decorated with a hairy antenna, while its mouth was equipped with a pair of slobbering mandibles. She noted the furry vermin clutching K-Zu-Ziro's shoulder before crossing the peak of the hill and descending unseen on the other side.
Fire from moth ridden street lamps flickered an amber reflection on the wet cobblestones paving the ground below. Like a mechanical heartbeat, sharp and piercing, hard heels clicked one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two …. The sound of walking was a well dressed human male. The man was out of place in the drizzle of an Aleraran night, his body and features so different to his Dark Elvish hosts that he could not hide in the light of day. This was a sleepy town, thoroughly provincial and unfamiliar with foreign visitors. Briefcase in hand, raincoat tied closed and hat tugged down, he glanced up to count the street lamps as he anxiously approached his destination.
Half way along the street he paused, distressed by the lack of moths clattering the glass of one street lamp, and one street lamp alone. “What the …” he mouthed to himself before clutching his treasured cargo and breaking into a run. His dress shoes made for an awkward gait, and his raincoat flapped—he could not move quickly. Looking up at one lamp after another he was soothed by the presence of moths, moths, moths. But he kept running. Until he looked ahead to see another light, unburdened by heat seeking insects. At which point he stopped. Looked back. Looked forward.
“Take it!”
The case was jettisoned in the gutter. Atop the light pole ahead was perched the spindly black monster, with Digsy strapped in and wearing a blank expression. K-Zu-Ziro had occupied his companion's mind so as to protect the child from the trauma of the violence it lusted for. The Child of the Black Tree God hissed and began its descent, each claw clamped the cold iron of the pole as it quickly came down on its victim. With a leap, it closed the final half of the distance to land in front of the man who had since turned to run.
“No, wait!”
Slice. Crunch. Thud. Where the man's head had been connected to his body a brief crimson fountain existed. With no heart to pump the fountain ran dry and the body fell limp. Hunched over, the creature's height was halved and it was able to retrieve the head from the ground. Without pausing to look at the face, K-Zu-Ziro flipped the head over as though checking for a stamp of authenticity. It crammed its closed pincer between the jaws of its victim and pried the jawbone away. K-Zu-Ziro banged what was left on the skull on the street's curb, cracking it like an egg. From there, with a level of dexterity difficult for one without fingers, the creature snipped at what was left fixing the brain in the skull. The click of firearms being cocked interrupted the Black Tree God's offspring from completing its grim procedure.
“Don't move!”, it was a squad of Dark Elven military sent in pursuit as a response to the vigilant scout from the day before.
“HISSS!!!” the creature responded as though it were a non-sentient being.
“Open fire!”
Cradling the brain like a newborn on the bend of its elbow and with a mindless Digsy as a shoulder mounted ornament, K-Zu-Ziro fled the scene under a spray of hot iron shot. Using its one free arm it clambered back up the light pole and began to awkwardly jump from one to the other into the dank surroundings. Into an open window it slipped. A Dark Elven female lay sleeping in her bed when K-Zu-Hiro's invading claw gored a hole in her chest. She died quickly. Once clear of its assailants, the overgrown insect continued work on the human brain it possessed. Placing the brain safely on the dead elf's bedside table, it reached back with its claw and violently smashed open the back of its own skull. After which it plucked the human brain from the table and jammed it alongside its own brain. Black amber, the same amber its parent had used to raise the dead, quickly oozed over the alien organ and then over the hole in the skull. The amber solidified to match the original matte black exoskeleton. Meanwhile, inside the skull, the inky goop was webbing fibrous bonds between K-Zu-Ziro's brain and the victim's brain.
“I don't understand.” the voice wasn't spoken, it was an unbound thought floating in a bleak vastness.
“But, I don't understand.”
…
“Wait! I don't know what happened to me.”
…
“I don't understand.”
…
“But, I don't understand.”
…
“I don't understand this. Help me!”
The voice in the dark was relentless. It had no other choice than to be relentless. Eventually the two brains had been connected long enough so that K-Zu-Ziro had been able to decipher its new passenger.
“Don't be afraid, Mux.”
“Who are you, how do you know my name? Where am I?”
“I am K-Zu-Ziro. I know everything about you. You live inside my mind now. You will help me.”
Upon comprehending his new reality, Mux Drik stumbled into a madness that would almost consume them both. A madness the insect had not anticipated. The encroaching insanity had to be contained with haste.
With Digsy still sleeping, K-Zu-Ziro dragged the dead elf's body from the bed and onto the floor. The creature hunched over her, buried its face in her abdomen and began to shred her guts with a frenetic scissoring of its saliva coated jaws. Heat was generated inside the K-Zu-Ziro's mouth—an ability inherent with all drones of this species—and it melted the fat and blood of the victim into a hot soup. Once fully gorged, the Child of the Black Tree God gripped the lifeless body by the ankle and tossed it out of the open window and into the street.
“Wake up!”
Digsy's eyes opened wide and he smiled, “Hi! Where are we?”
“An Aleraran town, surrounded by Dark Elves”
“Cooooool!”
“Remain calm, we are not welcome here and as such will be hibernating. Drink this, quickly.”
K-Zu-Ziro pulled a daisy-laden vase from the bedside table and poured the water and flowers onto the carpet. It regurgitated a portion of the Elven broth into the container and angled it to pour it into the throat of his rodentine companion.
“Drink up! It will both send you to sleep and sustain you while you sleep.”
The concoction dribbled down Digsy's cheeks, “Wow, yummy! Elves know how to cook!”
“No, that is my food—the Butter of Hosto.”
In order to evade capture the duo set to sleep in a deep, but dry, region of the marvellous Dark Elf sewer system. In order to continue the mending process of both brains it now possessed, the offspring of T-Zu-Hosto had to rise and feed every three months. By preying on the Dark Elves in this manner for over two years the creature gained a substantial place in the psyche of its hosts—The Belly Eater, Scourge of the Elves.
After the years of sleeping rough in the world's finest sewer system, Mux's despair had finally been contained. As such, the trio were quickly on the road again. They were very much in a hurry to exit Dark Elf territory. Mux Drik, now at ease, spoke to K-Zu-Ziro through their shared mind.
“You know, you really should have taken that briefcase, old bean.”
“Do you consider yourself an important man?” asked K-Zu-Ziro curiously.
“Sadly not, I was just a diplomat—slightly important I suppose. But no, not very.”
“Explain to me the importance of your briefcase then.”
“If your goal is to weaken the power of the established nations then the briefcase would have been of particular use to us. It contained important documents related to an unpopular trade deal between the Republic of Corone and the Dark Elves. If the parameters of that deal had become public knowledge then the governments of both regions would have been verrrrrry embarrassed.”
“A shame. Speaking of your homeland, we will be journeying to Corone to put your knowledge to use.”
“Are you guys talking in your head without me?!” whined Digsy out loud as he bounced up and down with each step K-Zu-Ziro took.
K-Zu-Ziro dragged Digsy's mind into theirs to initiate a three-way conversation.
“There. We are just discussing our plans to travel to Corone.” explained the telepathic insect.
“Ah, wow. Sounds fun! Hey, what's up Mux! Does Ziro here let you see out of his eyes yet or what?”
“His?” protested the genderless K-Zu-Ziro.
“Thank the Lord, yes.” Mux responded, relief flushing through his trapped thoughts.
“Ziro?” asked the fuzzy child.
“Yes?”
“Why don't we talk to Mahia T-Zu-Hosto any more?”
“My parent is too far away,” it explained, “Now we can only connect with home when there is a full moon to act as a relay for our thoughts.”
“Ahh! I understand.” The Hostian youngster feigned comprehension.
One thousand, three hundred and eight years ago, a calcareous proboscis drove a many layered egg into the roots of an ancient tree. Having secured the rebirth of its species, the egg's originator dragged its wretched self away in search of undeserved serenity prior to expiration. The offspring—a ravenous parasite—wrapped its thoughts around the bounty of life, squeezing the grand old landmark that had lived for a hundred years at the summit of a hilltop. Verdant glows faded with each season into the inescapable gravity of obsidian. Its bark broke and cracked, turning shades of stone and oil as the transformation proceeded. Living in the mind, but dead in the fibres—the tree decorated its sorrowful boughs with inky leaves that rustled without sound. Via symbiosis, the tree gained an awareness of itself and desires began to bloom. Albeit, desires moulded amongst those of its alien passenger.
Its dire magnificence absorbed worshippers from the ranks of the indigenous people. It was named and became the Mahia T-Zu-Hosto. Roots, bulging from the earth, liquidised rock and froze soil—side-by-side, to the disbelief of the learned. Rotund mammalian fuzz balls waddled up to the roots and kept their meat from the hunt cold and fresh in the frigid earth, and when ready dragged the flesh centimetres to the side in order to cook atop the unbelievable lava. With their floppy ears as anchors, they created headdresses from the black foliage to signify status among the tribe. And as the years encroached, Spring dances, Summer parties, Winter feasts and Autumn harvest festivals were held annually in the increasingly gargantuan tree's powerful shade. What emerged as a parasite and victim relationship between tree and egg, became a three way symbiosis including the Hostians (they had a different name before they worshipped the tree, but its telepathic influence over them had scrubbed clean any remnants of their original culture).
Contentedness flourished among the Cult of the Black Tree, the name given to the Hostians by outsiders. An unprecedented period of peace blessed the centuries. Professions were established outshining the rival sentient species in the surrounding area; architects, doctors, physicists, philosophers, chemists, engineers, et al. The work of the architects, though, was most evident in the miles encircling Mahia T-Zu-Hosto. Bulbous domes peaked the majestic temples dedicated to the Black Tree. Each family was provided a home with running water in addition to a heating system for the Winter and a cooling system for the summer, based—of course—on the tree's root magic. Metallurgy and natural gas allowed street lamps to light the yellow brick streets. The high chiefs of old had been replaced by an elected council and their meetings took place in a palatial hall wedged amongst the ornate churches and temples of the city's centre. The crowning achievement of the architect's guild was the university, in which they—and other professionals—trained the next generation.
SECTION:2 – Summer Festival
Hidden from the splendid success of the Hostians, the egg had split open and from it grew gelatinous tentacles. Creeping and stretching tentacles. The muscle-strong arms flexed and tensed to make hollow bough and root alike, running central to every offshoot of the innocent tree. Its grip on the host had expanded beyond merely mental and grew to encompass the physical also. T-Zu-Hosto strained each branch to point its thick cloak of black leaves directly at the beating sun, ravaging all the energy it could. Tar leaked as saliva from the breaks in its bark, Mahia T-Zu-Hosto could no longer hide its slobbering hunger. For centuries the molten rock had heated and the frozen earth had cooled, but in this penultimate developmental phase those magics enveloping the tree's roots weakened and failed. The T-Zu-Hostian priests, their minds swayed by the reach of the maturing being inside the tree, began to prophesise the end times. In deep trances, mind controlled, they whispered, “The Child of the Black Tree God will kill us all”. This haunting phrase was suddenly ubiquitous. The words were scrawled in black paint across the façade of every civic building in the city, mocking the arrogance of Hostoland's marvellous architects.
In spite of the ominous predictions of the clergy, the year's Summer Festival went ahead as planned. Bright banners sailed between the graffiti ridden buildings, street food was prepared without a sense of moderation while red and white petals tossed in celebration quickly clogged the storm drains along Hostoland's thoroughfare. Furry citizens ambled hand-in-hand with family members along the main street and towards the tree that formed the very core of their entire civilisation.
“Ma, can I have some shells???” whined a little boy to his smiling mother.
“What on earth for?”
“I get a roasted deer hock every year, maaaaaaaaaaaaa—come oooooooon!”
“Alright then, go on, go on” she said pulling enough shells out of her pocket for the little one.
“You're the best”, the alternative coins were snatched from paw to paw and he was gone.
Away from the melody of the festival, the ordained sat in basement prayer rooms, desperately trying to commune with their deity. Silence. The incessant influence in their head that had guided their worship all their lives was gone. All that was left was to make plans for the coming apocalypse. To observe the wishes of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto. Finally, ending their prayers, came the toll of the city's bell. This year's gong rang in their ears with a deafening cold. Priestess and priest alike smiled reassuringly as they exited the churches surrounding T-Zu-Hosto. Joining left hand to right, a virtually universal gesture of piety, they moved through the parted crowd and kneeled before the tree.
One minute's silence was to be observed, in accordance with tradition.
A cough.
Deep breaths.
A Sniffle.
Quiet nibbles as the boy stole a bite or two of his juicy hock.
The dull clatter of a pocket full of iridescent shells hitting the yellow brick pavement.
10 seconds remained.
9 …
8 …
7 …
6 …
5 …
4 …
3 …
2 …
1 …
A RUPTUROUS CHEER SHATTERED THE SILENCE!!! Everybody threw their arms in the air and pretty petals rained down. Hostians grabbed each other and danced in joyous circles. The summer festival had passed as it had with the success of each year before it. Bellies were full of meat and veg and hearts were at ease. Mahia T-Zu-Hosto still loved its nation of little fuzz balls. It was clear.
SECTION:3 – Magic Spawn
Shedding the veil of hocus pocus, T-Zu-Hosto's trunk bust asunder with a rapidity unfamiliar to most vegetation. Spewing forth came a gangly hexapod, despite being smothered in black goop it was immediately recognisable as an insect. Reminiscent of an afterbirth covered antelope taking its first steps, the Child of the Black Tree God awkwardly rose to a hind leg stance. Towering eight feet tall over the cutesy Hostians, the tallest among them reached three feet even, it hissed like a tropical cockroach calling for a mate. People froze, ran and screamed; each individual taking the course of action they felt best suited to the scenario befalling them. Noon, in the heat of summer, quickly baked the black goop dry. It formed a crust upon a matte black carapace. Veiny cellophane wings emerged from behind the creature, stretching to span ten feet. The appendages buzzed in a blur of superhuman speed. The newborn rose to a hover just above the pool of liquid it had stood in. Six elongated limbs dangled, each tipped with a scythe-like blade. The spawn's bug-eyed head snapped left and right as it quickly digested its surroundings.
The learned—professors, philosophers and priests—had the wherewithal to look beyond the monstrosity. Instead, they spared a gaze for the broken husk which had given birth to the exoskeletal being. Had what was inside the tree become this? Is the tree dead? Was God nothing but a wretched insect all these years? Anybody looking could see, hanging from the open trunk, a tangle of tentacles. They were limp and dead. A rich cherry flush was fading from the tentacles to become a grey white as they examined from a safe distance.
Hiissssssssss!!! GARGHH!!! Blood spilled with an unnerving splatter at the feet of the deer hock boy. A fur-covered Hostoland head with lifeless, glassy eyes rolled into the boy's view. The Child of the Black Tree God was circling above. Then, the head's body followed with a bruising thud after a long fall. The creature swooped down again and buried its stabbing claw in the back of the deer hock boy's head and gave him a final ride into the heavens before, again, dropping the limp body onto the dainty brick paving below. Carnage continued. Street lamps glowed pink through a coat of blood while an intestine snaked down a storm drain and into the city sewers—the chunks of fur-matted flesh brought more colour to the street-scape than the banners and petals had. The festive melody of enjoyment sank into a chorus of disjointed screams.
Safely behind the stained glass of the Church of the Obsidian Leaf, Prof. Duggsteen scribbled furiously into his notepad. His furry little paws sprang back like a typewriter after reaching the end of the page. “This is it!”, his words whistled through the large incisors occupying his little mouth. “If, and it's a big IF—if I can survive this will make a great paper!”. For all his intelligence, Duggsteen seemed to be oblivious to the fact that society as he knew it was coming to a blood-curdling end. Genocide was a hurdle fast approaching when the Professor's eyes widened with surprise.
The limp, white arms of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto warmed to a vigorous red and bolted into the sky, twisting into a thick braid of many tentacles acting as one. The Black Tree God was alive and the demon spawn was its target. It knocked its only child out of the sky before swaddling it to the ground. Duggsteen was pleased to see first hand that the long theorised being within the tree was real. And it was protecting the people. But what was the relationship between bug and tentacle creature? The dog-eared notepad was quickly filled with lovingly scribbled field sketches, annotated in to a degree that belied the time required to produce such detailed notes. Splendid documentation.
Persistence characterised all life. In the glimmering hope of tear swollen eyes a spot of darkness grew. It grew in every living pair of eyes remaining in all of Hostoland. Speedily, all the eyes were jet black marbles. Humming a haunting march in unison, the people walked as drones from their hiding places and into the streets they had fled moments earlier. In perfect formation they retraced the steps along the main street to the base of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto's mighty roots.
Pupil, iris and white returned—the people's eyes were clear again. In spite of their released consciousness, they were not afraid. Their minds were smoothed by the presence of the will of their Lord. Each face in the crowd of thousands smiled through the rodentine twitches of their noses—it made for a powerful juxtaposition against the gory scene.
The crowd had parted for the procession of religious devotees, and now it parted again at the will of the Black Tree God. From the crowd stepped forward a middled-aged female—her greying fur and untidy whiskers made her instantly recognisable as the High Executive Councillor. She came to a stop beside the writhing body of the invertebrate beast. The creature was still safely secured, wrapped breathlessly, in its parent's powerful limbs. Creaking wood began to grind and warp at the centre of the tree, the gaping hole from which the child came was being reshaped by the alien half of T-Zu-Hosto. One tentacle limb broke from the group and made for the Councillor. Mucous goop dampened her fur as The Black Tree God caressed her stubby arm, slowly slicking its limited length, before settling into the palm of her paw. They shared a mutual grip, as though lovers. She was guided by her God into the break in the tree's trunk and sat, justly, on the intricate bark wrought throne that had been created.
“Forgive me, children.”, the High Executive Councillor began. “This is the voice of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto, I know the name you have given me.” Hostoland's elected leader was now a mouthpiece for Hostoland's supreme God. “I know we have grown together for hundreds of years. And I know that my child has murdered some of you, my first brood.” The Black Tree God felt the weight of sorrow; the proud, stout centre of their universe took on the mourning outline of a heartbroken willow—weeping as thought it had always wept.
Passing through the sky, the sun brought an evening perspective to the history of the day. Before darkness, each dismembered body part was carried and placed before the tree. Every pair of hands in the city found work to be done. Priestess and priest prepared clean water to wash away the crusted blood from the hands of the people. A veritable swarm of flies searched the pile of sun roasted meat for the perfect spot on which to lay their maggot-laden eggs. But it was not to be.
Mahia T-Zu-Hosto waved the flies away with a battery of tentacles. An excess of black sap oozed from every crevice in its barky skin. Tentacles scooped up the viscous secretion and lathered it over the pile of dead bodies. Thick, oily mucus made links between limb and torso, brought together bile ducts and organs, formed gel to bridge the gaps between severed spines. Duggsteen noted in on a fresh page that the process was akin to watching the positive and negative ends of a magnet draw together. Vacant smiles persisted amongst the crowd as they watched contently as their loved ones were magically repaired. Each body was correctly gelled together again. There were seams, stitches and cracks. The black caulk used to seal the bodies showed through in these lines. Perfection had alluded the kindly Black Tree God.
“Now to reanimate them.”, the councillor spoke the words of God as a mountainous roar.
The first to stand was the deer hock boy. He was grasping the unfinished treat to his chest, cherishing it, as he came back to life. Black rain descended from the sky, each body speckled with droplets received the miracle of rebirth. Veins filled with blood had been swapped for a slow flow of inky sap, despite pumping the black liquid their hearts hadn't changed—the newly living and the still living closed the distance between them and each family embraced thankfully.
Life restored, Mahia T-Zu-Hosto turned its attention to its errant offspring.
“My name is Mahia T-Zu-Hosto. Your name will be K-Zu-Ziro.”
While the words were spoken aloud by the mouthpiece, they were also placed directly into the mind of K-Zu-Ziro. This species possessed an inherent link between queen and drone. Flailing with an unnatural pace two tentacles shot forward and grabbed the middle pair of arms. “Child, there is a penalty for the crimes you committed against your siblings.” A cringe-worthy snap punctuated the final word, followed by the awfully mortal sound of bodily fluids splattering across the flaxen brickwork—T-Zu-Hosto had removed its offspring's middle arms. “You will live life with four limbs, wingless, as all citizens of Hostoland do. This will serve as a reminder and a bond. We do not share blood with the Hostians, but we will love them, as they love us. We will all live to serve each other and make prosperous our mutually beneficial relationship.” With a painful rip K-Zu-Ziro's wings were also torn away.
Tiring from the physically demanding task of holding every mind of an entire civilisation hostage, the Black Tree God relented. With a residual feeling of happiness each Hostoland family returned to their homes, where eyelids were promptly defeated by the weight of the day's events. They would all sleep for days, before awaking to overgrown grass, rotten food and pets hungry for a fresh bowl of nibbles.
Filling the role of witness, Mahia T-Zu-Hosto had been secretly present for the birth and death of thousands upon thousands of its humble worshippers. Each individual's forlorn panic in the face of loss was woven into the Black Tree God's bark-encased flesh. Unfathomable was the ocean of sentiment, a pulling tide of melancholy the god wore on its brow with pride. Wallowing in sorrow is to pay tribute to the lost, and so Mahia T-Zu-Hosto became a bloated pig of misery. This sad indulgence highlighted its imperfection, a mark against its credentials as a god. Unknown to the telepath, it had spread small black spots of this unsettling experience to each and every Hostian whose mind it had possessed. A memory of bereavement, so distant in the past it was out of focus, but so fresh in the mind, it brought people to tears. Not knowing where this feeling came from, many hid their tears and coupled loneliness with sadness.
SECTION:4 – The Drizzle of an Aleraran Night
With telepathy as a tool, education became simple and speedy. K-Zu-Ziro barely held an independent personality inside its brain, it had become a living extension of its queen. The offspring, genetically weak willed, had come to share every belief and desire of its creator. It held familial affection for the rodent people who worshipped its parent. With that affection foremost in its mind, K-Zu-Ziro gushed with zeal as Mahia T-Zu-Hosto placed a mission in its mind, with a very clear check-list:
1. Investigate foreign nations and report back.
2. Weaken foreign nations in preparation for a future invasion.
3. Spread the religion of the Black Tree God, terminate those who refuse conversion.
4. Secure slaves to serve Hostians as they arrive to colonise new lands.
5. Select a Hostian to serve as your mouthpiece when communicating with others.
6. If captured, end your own life to prevent information falling into enemy hands.
Moonlight silvered the way as the child of the Black Tree God set to leave Hostoland that very night. Its claws made an obvious sound against the brick streets, bringing long whiskered noses to the windows of many houses. With curtains drawn back, the Hostians peered through the glass to watch the monstrous child leave the nest. Said child had selected another child to fulfil the role required for the fifth item on the check-list. It was the deer hock boy, or Digsy as his friends nicknamed him. As with all those who had been resurrected on that day, they bore the scars of the violence. The rear of the boy's head—where K-Zu-Ziro's claw had entered his skull—had a hole filled with black amber. With a weakened version of Mahia T-Zu-Hosto's telepathy, K-Zu-Ziro was able to occupy the mind of the child, rendering him a dumb terminal. K-Zu-Ziro's telepathy was only able to influence little Digsy. As they travelled together, Digsy sat on the bony shoulder of his sibling, strapped in safely with leather strips.
The unrelenting spin of the planet brought day after day to the duo as they journeyed. Hostoland, for all its grandeur, was distant to the rest of the world. The rodent people and their symbiotic tree god were isolated by natural boundaries: mountains, rivers, seas. Days became weeks before K-Zu-Ziro's nightmarish form was first seen by a Dark Elf, they had crossed the border into Alerar.
Scouting for a nearby fort, the Dark Elf was understandably alarmed. She, holding the advantage of being unseen, crouched amongst shrubbery atop a small hill. Mouth agape, she saw a giant invertebrate encased in a matte black exoskeleton, lanky, snapping pincers completed each arm, while its legs buried stabbing claws into the earth to stay balanced. When the rolling clouds cleared and the day's light illuminated the face of the creature, she grimaced with disgust. Its bony mask was dominated by glossy bug eyes, each oval was decorated with a hairy antenna, while its mouth was equipped with a pair of slobbering mandibles. She noted the furry vermin clutching K-Zu-Ziro's shoulder before crossing the peak of the hill and descending unseen on the other side.
Fire from moth ridden street lamps flickered an amber reflection on the wet cobblestones paving the ground below. Like a mechanical heartbeat, sharp and piercing, hard heels clicked one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one, two …. The sound of walking was a well dressed human male. The man was out of place in the drizzle of an Aleraran night, his body and features so different to his Dark Elvish hosts that he could not hide in the light of day. This was a sleepy town, thoroughly provincial and unfamiliar with foreign visitors. Briefcase in hand, raincoat tied closed and hat tugged down, he glanced up to count the street lamps as he anxiously approached his destination.
Half way along the street he paused, distressed by the lack of moths clattering the glass of one street lamp, and one street lamp alone. “What the …” he mouthed to himself before clutching his treasured cargo and breaking into a run. His dress shoes made for an awkward gait, and his raincoat flapped—he could not move quickly. Looking up at one lamp after another he was soothed by the presence of moths, moths, moths. But he kept running. Until he looked ahead to see another light, unburdened by heat seeking insects. At which point he stopped. Looked back. Looked forward.
“Take it!”
The case was jettisoned in the gutter. Atop the light pole ahead was perched the spindly black monster, with Digsy strapped in and wearing a blank expression. K-Zu-Ziro had occupied his companion's mind so as to protect the child from the trauma of the violence it lusted for. The Child of the Black Tree God hissed and began its descent, each claw clamped the cold iron of the pole as it quickly came down on its victim. With a leap, it closed the final half of the distance to land in front of the man who had since turned to run.
“No, wait!”
Slice. Crunch. Thud. Where the man's head had been connected to his body a brief crimson fountain existed. With no heart to pump the fountain ran dry and the body fell limp. Hunched over, the creature's height was halved and it was able to retrieve the head from the ground. Without pausing to look at the face, K-Zu-Ziro flipped the head over as though checking for a stamp of authenticity. It crammed its closed pincer between the jaws of its victim and pried the jawbone away. K-Zu-Ziro banged what was left on the skull on the street's curb, cracking it like an egg. From there, with a level of dexterity difficult for one without fingers, the creature snipped at what was left fixing the brain in the skull. The click of firearms being cocked interrupted the Black Tree God's offspring from completing its grim procedure.
“Don't move!”, it was a squad of Dark Elven military sent in pursuit as a response to the vigilant scout from the day before.
“HISSS!!!” the creature responded as though it were a non-sentient being.
“Open fire!”
Cradling the brain like a newborn on the bend of its elbow and with a mindless Digsy as a shoulder mounted ornament, K-Zu-Ziro fled the scene under a spray of hot iron shot. Using its one free arm it clambered back up the light pole and began to awkwardly jump from one to the other into the dank surroundings. Into an open window it slipped. A Dark Elven female lay sleeping in her bed when K-Zu-Hiro's invading claw gored a hole in her chest. She died quickly. Once clear of its assailants, the overgrown insect continued work on the human brain it possessed. Placing the brain safely on the dead elf's bedside table, it reached back with its claw and violently smashed open the back of its own skull. After which it plucked the human brain from the table and jammed it alongside its own brain. Black amber, the same amber its parent had used to raise the dead, quickly oozed over the alien organ and then over the hole in the skull. The amber solidified to match the original matte black exoskeleton. Meanwhile, inside the skull, the inky goop was webbing fibrous bonds between K-Zu-Ziro's brain and the victim's brain.
“I don't understand.” the voice wasn't spoken, it was an unbound thought floating in a bleak vastness.
“But, I don't understand.”
…
“Wait! I don't know what happened to me.”
…
“I don't understand.”
…
“But, I don't understand.”
…
“I don't understand this. Help me!”
The voice in the dark was relentless. It had no other choice than to be relentless. Eventually the two brains had been connected long enough so that K-Zu-Ziro had been able to decipher its new passenger.
“Don't be afraid, Mux.”
“Who are you, how do you know my name? Where am I?”
“I am K-Zu-Ziro. I know everything about you. You live inside my mind now. You will help me.”
Upon comprehending his new reality, Mux Drik stumbled into a madness that would almost consume them both. A madness the insect had not anticipated. The encroaching insanity had to be contained with haste.
With Digsy still sleeping, K-Zu-Ziro dragged the dead elf's body from the bed and onto the floor. The creature hunched over her, buried its face in her abdomen and began to shred her guts with a frenetic scissoring of its saliva coated jaws. Heat was generated inside the K-Zu-Ziro's mouth—an ability inherent with all drones of this species—and it melted the fat and blood of the victim into a hot soup. Once fully gorged, the Child of the Black Tree God gripped the lifeless body by the ankle and tossed it out of the open window and into the street.
“Wake up!”
Digsy's eyes opened wide and he smiled, “Hi! Where are we?”
“An Aleraran town, surrounded by Dark Elves”
“Cooooool!”
“Remain calm, we are not welcome here and as such will be hibernating. Drink this, quickly.”
K-Zu-Ziro pulled a daisy-laden vase from the bedside table and poured the water and flowers onto the carpet. It regurgitated a portion of the Elven broth into the container and angled it to pour it into the throat of his rodentine companion.
“Drink up! It will both send you to sleep and sustain you while you sleep.”
The concoction dribbled down Digsy's cheeks, “Wow, yummy! Elves know how to cook!”
“No, that is my food—the Butter of Hosto.”
In order to evade capture the duo set to sleep in a deep, but dry, region of the marvellous Dark Elf sewer system. In order to continue the mending process of both brains it now possessed, the offspring of T-Zu-Hosto had to rise and feed every three months. By preying on the Dark Elves in this manner for over two years the creature gained a substantial place in the psyche of its hosts—The Belly Eater, Scourge of the Elves.
After the years of sleeping rough in the world's finest sewer system, Mux's despair had finally been contained. As such, the trio were quickly on the road again. They were very much in a hurry to exit Dark Elf territory. Mux Drik, now at ease, spoke to K-Zu-Ziro through their shared mind.
“You know, you really should have taken that briefcase, old bean.”
“Do you consider yourself an important man?” asked K-Zu-Ziro curiously.
“Sadly not, I was just a diplomat—slightly important I suppose. But no, not very.”
“Explain to me the importance of your briefcase then.”
“If your goal is to weaken the power of the established nations then the briefcase would have been of particular use to us. It contained important documents related to an unpopular trade deal between the Republic of Corone and the Dark Elves. If the parameters of that deal had become public knowledge then the governments of both regions would have been verrrrrry embarrassed.”
“A shame. Speaking of your homeland, we will be journeying to Corone to put your knowledge to use.”
“Are you guys talking in your head without me?!” whined Digsy out loud as he bounced up and down with each step K-Zu-Ziro took.
K-Zu-Ziro dragged Digsy's mind into theirs to initiate a three-way conversation.
“There. We are just discussing our plans to travel to Corone.” explained the telepathic insect.
“Ah, wow. Sounds fun! Hey, what's up Mux! Does Ziro here let you see out of his eyes yet or what?”
“His?” protested the genderless K-Zu-Ziro.
“Thank the Lord, yes.” Mux responded, relief flushing through his trapped thoughts.
“Ziro?” asked the fuzzy child.
“Yes?”
“Why don't we talk to Mahia T-Zu-Hosto any more?”
“My parent is too far away,” it explained, “Now we can only connect with home when there is a full moon to act as a relay for our thoughts.”
“Ahh! I understand.” The Hostian youngster feigned comprehension.