The Ascendancy of Wolven
Amuntah has spread his hands over the dust, over the sparkling, mystic particles floating upon the invisible breeze.
Amuntah placed the dust in his hand, and squeezed them together with divine strength.
Amuntah has pricked the dust with a pin, and it has bled water, water that flows across the surface of the ball within his hand.
Amuntah scattered seeds beside the flowing streams of water, and drew out stems and leaves from the dust.
Amuntah has freed the fish and lobster, the sea star and abalone, and unleashed the draugon into the depths of the waters.
Amuntah prepared a place for the rumidont and hippus, for the otter and the thylak, for the deviltooth and depila bird.
Amuntah has directed the Alluvia and Gravidas to flow, to reject the northern lands, to refuse the pleadings of the desert.
And Amuntah took the dust he had made, and fashioned the Bedoua, to live as the wind-blown sands sting the face.
Oh, Amuntah, your power is beyond imagination, your wisdom and wonder beyond the mind of your creation.
Your goodness and mercy no doubt are greater than the heart of man can understand.
Oh, Amuntah, you drape your long robes over the expanse of your creation, giving shelter to all who crawl along its surface,
Or fly in its crystal skies, or swim in its cool darkness.
Oh, Amuntah, life belongs to you, whether it be short like your appetite or long like your elegant whiskers,
For you care not for the delicacies of the table, nor for the succulence of the fields.
Oh, Amuntah, you are more feared than any other, and your judgments strike deep into the hearts of evildoers and righteous alike.
You walk upon the heavens in shoes curled at the toe, carrying your long scimitar forever at your belt, prepared for your enemies.
What is your pleasure today, Amuntah, and what will come from your belly?
For you have set bread upon your tables, and you give generously to all those who call upon your name.
What will be the sign of your goodness this day? For you have set moisture in the air and dryness under the feet of your chosen.
You have done what is right in your sight, and prepared a creation that waits upon you.
Wolven! What is this that you have imagined? What has put these desires into your heart?
You creep about along the paths of the heavens, hiding among the stars as you plan your deceits.
The taste of ambition hangs upon your tongue, and your stomach gnaws at your heart.
What have you divined in your mind, that bitter envy would color your designs even against your creator?
“Oh, Amuntah, is it right that you have created me? Is it right that you have set me down in the midst of suffering?
“Oh, Amuntah, I come now to charge you with cruelty, you who have made me without my consent.
“For what am I, oh Amuntah, but what I am? And who has made me thus, if not you, Amuntah?
“And why do I hunger after that which I am not allowed, and why should my stomach gnaw at my heart?
“Oh, Amuntah, my wish is that I had not tasted birth at all! That I had been stillborn in the womb of your imagination!
“Oh, Amuntah, that you had had mercy upon me in my unconsciousness and prevented me from this sea of affliction.
“For you have brought me forth, you have brought me upon the heavens and Medialia,
“And them have I hated.” And so you have said, oh Wolven, in the courts of the creator.
“Oh, Wolven, well you have said,” says the creator. “For Amuntah has heard your complaint and seen your torment.
“Have I not created you with a clean mind, a dune without footsteps, to do with which as you will?
“Did you not fill your mind with gnawing? Have you not yourself created the desire for things you are denied?
“For you have stepped upon my shadow in my presence, and you have elevated yourself to my tables
“Not to share in abundance, but to steal; not to add to your plate, but to hide underneath your robes.
“Is not every good thing yours? Why must your desires be upon secrets withheld?
“For the wisdom of Amuntah runs deeper than the Alluvia, and his beauty is poured out upon the south.
“And the golden loaves will sustain his chosen forever.”
Did not Wolven hear the words of the creator, and did he not heed their direction? No!
“They will be made mine,” Wolven has said within his heart, and he has made his way to steal the secret.
And upon the table of Amuntah has he crept, in the shelter of the darkness, moving among his fellows, the shadows;
Wolven has stalked the golden loaves that sit upon the tables of Amuntah.
Dressed in cloaks of darkness, did Wolven prepare his way to the tables, sacks hung from his shoulders.
“Well will he regret making me to suffer,” he has said in his heart. “Well will he remember the day of my revenge,” Wolven has said.
For deep in the shadows he did creep, long past the time of the sun’s setting,
That most bright creation of Amuntah, which he created at the beginning of time.
Stealthily did Wolven come upon the tables, in the darkness of night, when not a single candle burned in the mansion of the creator’s domain.
Though fire brought heat upon the cold and the damned, not a candle burned.
Light did Wolven despise as he crept to his crafty mission in the depths of the darkness.
Light did Wolven despise, for his heart was dark and his purposes filled with deceit.
Oh, Wolven, have you not invaded the secret counsels of even your own creator?
Have you not betrayed the purposes of the one who set the universe in motion, to travel about himself in perfect order?
For you have crept through the passages of the mansion of the creator’s domain,
And you have stolen the golden loaves from the creator’s table, and cast them upon the land of Medialia.
What is this, that lies upon the sands? What is this thing, that brings life to the deserts of the Bedoua?
For it is like nothing ever seen, nothing that grows upon the trees of the ground, or flows from the teats of the rumidont.
For what reason is it hard, yet soft? For what reason does it defy tearing, yet crumble into helpless pieces?
What genius is womb to this wonderful gift? What generous deity has blessed the Bedoua so with the bread from heaven?
Oh, Amuntah! From the depths of your creation you have designed the spirit for life.
You have brought your mercy to the shores of the land, and into the desolate tents of the Bedoua have you at last sent grace.
Your gifts have fattened our bellies and prospered us indeed,
And you have made of us a grateful nation, prepared to serve you in obedience and thanksgiving forever.
“These sickening praises!” Oh, Wolven, have you not blasphemed in the fullness of your anger, your hatred?
“These prattling worshipers!” Oh, Wolven, have you not used the depths of your wiles and still failed against Amuntah?
“In cursing you I have blessed them, and in cursing them I have blessed you! Woe is me, and woe upon my head!
“For though I would cause you to suffer, the same suffering you have made me for, I can not.” Oh, Wolven, great is your bitterness.
Amuntah stands silent in his victory, the giver of the stolen gift, not condemning though mere mortals eat.
Created long years ago, sitting upon his table, preparing for the appointed time to descend.
The golden loaves remain yours, though you share them freely, even among the Bedoua, oh Amuntah,
And greatly are you to be praised among the people, in the midst of the congregation of tents, in the midst of the Bedoua.
Battle hangs in the air, as the clanging of weapons rises in the valleys.
Armor glistens in the sun, for the day of bloodletting is come upon us.
The tramping of feet echoes throughout the mountains, as armies prepare for massacre.
Slaughter marches onward and bears ruthlessly down upon time, fleeting time.
Wailing arises among the cities, as peoples prepare to mourn their children
And families flee to false security within the thick forests and upon high plateaus.
Great numbers, rising on winged hippus, take formation against each other
In the valley of the unmerciful, the path of the final reaper.
“Why do you come out against me, oh Wolven?” Amuntah has said. “Why do you presume to bring battle to me?
“Why do you assemble an army after me, to overthrow my reign and make yourself greater than your creator?
“Why have you thought to prepare a throne for yourself in the far north, where the land is barren and the Alluvia flows not?
“For I have made you lesser than me, and only your desire to be more has brought you to this ruinous place.
“I have made you the first of my creation, oh Wolven,” Amuntah has said. “That you might be clothed in splendid glory.
“You were made no less than the stars themselves, even the star of the day.
“Your conspiring thievery has only served to fulfill my wishes, and so you have waited upon me even in rebellion.
“So now do you come against me, thinking you will finally satisfy your stomach gnawing at your heart?”
“So will be my vengeance upon you, for you have made me to suffer,” Wolven has said.
“You have made me to suffer for the things withheld from me, and for the humiliation of my failure.
“You have made me to grovel before created things, the men you have chosen to favor over me.
“You have made me to suffer, though I would choose never to exist, by making me the servant of your will.
“So I will have my vengeance upon you,” Wolven has said. “And I will see your throne overturned in anguish.
“And my armies have I assembled, to face you in the wilderness, and leave you clinging to life upon a tree.
“Betrayal will be my weapon, and my numbers will flourish before you, and I will reclaim the blessing of the golden loaves.
“And you will taste of the dust of death, and of the suffering you have brought upon your creation, by your gift of life.”
Though many or few, none can stand before the might of Amuntah, creator of the heavens and all in them.
Though mighty and full of weapons, none can fight the powerful Amuntah, master of the land and all its animals.
Though filled with arrogance and butchery, none can withstand the mighty arm of Amuntah, lord of Medialia and all its people.
Though brimming with anger and hatred, none can overpower the love of Amuntah, vizier of the patient.
Have you not stood against a stone wall, oh Wolven, in your manipulation against your creator?
Have you not made yourself an impossible goal, in your deceptions to overcome even Amuntah?
Or do you carry the harsh desert wind in your hand, the daggers of death itself within your slathering jaws?
Do you have the fortune to overthrow that which is greater than you, he who alone has power to bless or curse?
Oh, Wolven, the depths of your malicious hatred are like the ravening quicksand casting up a mirage
Which beckons with lies of abundance but swallows up the unwary, who innocently seek life.
Oh, Wolven, the roiling of your bitter anger is like a great wind, the cyclone that makes the sand to dance upon itself
And whip into the eyes of even the wise, to make them blind, and to bury the therium in its deceiving weight.
And so you march against your creator, the mighty Amuntah, with armies of traitors and mercenaries.
You bring battering rams and catapults, longbows and crossbows, to the castle walls of your master’s mansions;
You bring fire and iron, you red devil, swords and pikes to do battle with the great and mighty one.
For you have said, oh Wolven, “I will proclaim myself victor over Amuntah, or I will end the gnawing at my heart.”
Have the archers not drawn the bow against the balustrades, and let fly their missiles against the guard upon the wall?
Have not the battering rams splintered the great wooden doors, and opened wide the courts within the castle?
Have the swordsmen not drawn their weapons against the lord’s infantry, and laid waste to women and children?
Have not the crossbows sent their bolts deep into the armor of the soldiers, a silent sting of death?
Have the axmen not expertly swung the heavy blades, to loosen shields from hands, and arms from shoulders?
Have not the pikes and lances set upon the people, defenseless against the cruel stabbing of grinning tormenters?
Has the cavalry not driven the hippus down upon the camp, and covered the ground like a flood?
For blood flows from the heavens and drenches Medialia below. And yet does Amuntah prevail.
Amuntah stands upon the parapet, in the midst of his armies, mighty against the fires of the night sky.
His robes flow in the breezes, his beard singed by the sparks of battle.
High over the heavens does he stand, and he directs the ways of the armies, and the forces that battle among themselves.
For he has created them, and they do his bidding, and the will of Amuntah is unable to fail.
Wolven creeps about at the foot of the wall, seeking a loose stone, or a tunnel through the dirt,
For he wants only a burglar’s passage, to steal away the glory of Amuntah, and count it as his own.
Are you not afraid, oh Wolven, to see the face of Amuntah, your creator these many ages ago?
Are you not afraid to see that the one who gave you life now requires it back again?
Men fall, breathe in the dirt from which they sprung, and life soaks back into eternity.
Fire claims the wood that once was no more than ground and water, and stones drop from their lofty place back to the earth.
Sparks twist into the heavens, flying up as from the bowels of Hades, the end of suffering and yet also only the beginning.
The sound of rushing wind brings only a sudden shock, and the arrow’s shaft betrays its deadly success.
Oh, Amuntah, creator of all that exists, create now a new power in your armies!
Oh, Amuntah, master of the fates, the past and the future, direct the battle to redeem your name!
For the full moon is on the rise, and a scarlet shadow is cast upon it,
For Wolven is on the prowl, and his armies are fed by his hateful bloodlust.
Proud against the sky stands Amuntah, his arms outstretched over his creation, over his armies that do battle.
High over the melee does Amuntah hold his staff, a mighty king in the battle thick with his faithful subjects.
But one who would betray him creeps below, and he has found his way into the king’s castle, and he has taken his place at his tables.
For Wolven is upon the balustrade, and he crawls among the shadows at his lord’s feet.
Have you not said, oh Wolven, “I cannot attack the creator in his strength.”
Have you not said, oh Wolven, “I will attack the creator only where he is weak.”
And so you sink your teeth, the vicious daggers of evil, deep into the master’s ankle, deep as his face is turned away.
And you introduce death to the creator as you cling mercilessly to his feet with your putrid maw.
“It is finished!” you have said, oh Wolven, “I have had my vengeance even upon the one who created me!
“I have made him to pay for the suffering he appointed me to, when he made me and withheld the goodness of his hand from me.
“Now will I reclaim the golden loaves, the secret of the bread for which the Bedoua do still bless him!
“No longer will the bounty of the creator’s table be a blessing to the people, but its memory will be a bitter curse.”
And so did you return to Medialia, oh Wolven, you returned even to the northern sands of the Bedoua,
But you do not find the bread. The bread is no longer upon the land, but in the minds of the people.
And the secret of the golden loaves sets its table among the Bedoua, and you are not able to steal away its blessing.
And forever will you roam the land, seeking out the golden loaves.
How great is your anger, oh Wolven, the bile that remains still in your belly, poisoning your mind and bowels.
How great is the torment, still laid upon your head by Amuntah, even in his defeat.
For in death you still cannot claim the things he withheld, and in his absence you still are not master of his creation.
And your suffering still is not complete.
You shall roam the desert lands, always searching, never finding, and it is yours to lay waste to all who cross your paths.
You will be chained to the moon, prisoner of its rising and falling, seeing only by the light of its fullness.
You will be a curse upon your people, the Bedoua, whom you have stolen away from Amuntah.
But you shall never steal away the blessing of the golden loaves, and never shall your stomach cease gnawing at your heart.
