Under The Eleventh Moon - Prelude

Haemon, third in the cycle and eleventh son of the table under Dhalmyn’s seat, which was neither a seat nor a place nor a person nor anything in between (it was merely a room), was unbelievably bored. He sat off to the side, stewing in his own impatience as he waited for someone to do something different. The four other children of Dhalmyn that occupied the room with him were all watching the table idly, not giving much thought to the happenings of the people below.

“I find myself jealous of Abicior.”

All four heads turned to him, breaking the stasis. Vanin, First Son, did not grin back, and instead met Haemon’s expression with a familiar scowl. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Vanin’s scowl deepened.

Haemon, who had been stretched out on an upholstered chaise in his little corner of the room, now sat up and rolled his shoulders back. He locked eyes with Vanin. “Im doing it.”

Haemon watched as confusion began to settle among those gathered around the table. Assessing whether or not he was being serious. They didn’t seem to reach a verdict. He was. Haemon began to glow.

The man on the moon was no man at all. He was the mist that clung to the squishy, porous surface of the marble sized globe. He was also the squishy, porous surface. And the rest of the moon too. He was rather proud of his work, and he was particularly satisfied with his ingenuity in regards to the larger, luminescent disc that hung suspended behind the moon itself. It hung slightly back from the moon, though it stayed connected through faint, wispy tendrils. The tendrils were likely trivial, but after previous breaches, Haemon didn't dare risk disobeying a term laid out by the other nine.

              The Nine, Haemon corrected, chiding himself. It had been a long, long time since he was of their order. Bah. He reconsidered the concept. He was still incredibly frustrated with the others. His boredom was so excruciating that suicide had become a daily thought. That, of course, would be ridiculous. He sighed, or at least he did whatever passed as a sigh for a god whose mind had been injected into an ever changing moon. He continued to wonder what exactly he could do to get back at his old friends.

It was a small survey group, consisting of a dozen guards, a pair of guard captains, and the war-master, all of house Pilthan. It had been approximately two hours now since Hintrin had heard the great impact that had shaken the plains just south of the keep, and It wasn't long before he was on horseback with his party and orders from Lord Pilthan, on their way to the site of whatever caused the noise. It was there where he sat now, atop his horse, taking in what lay before him feeling even more puzzled than when he had heard the great thud. 

A large egg-like object sat about twenty feet from him. The ground around it was charred, and large fissures had erupted into a web of cracked terrain, originating from where the foreign object now sat. The thing was unlike anything Hintrin had ever seen. It seemed to be made of metal, though it didn't appear to have been damaged much upon impact. The bottom of it had a slight dent, but that was all. The object was all white, save for the dirt and mud which now smeared its glossy surface. The entire site radiated an energy of uncertainty, and Hintrin could tell by the subtle shuffling of his men that they too, felt uneasy.

“Quite the sight, sir,” one ventured. It was him who originally reported the tremor.

Hintrin snorted as he dismounted his horse. “Who else knows of it?”

“I’m unsure of who Lord Pilthan told, though his scribe was in the room when I reported it. I would not be surprised to learn that the entire keep is aware that something is up. The sound was hard to ignore.”

Hintrin nodded, gaze still locked on the thing. He hoped to himself that there were no other houses aware of the disturbance. Whatever this was, it could be valuable, and Hintrin dared not risk it falling into the hands of a rival lord. 

“I want the thing secure in the keep by nightfall.”

The guards rushed to obey his command, half of them returning to the keep to devise a way to bring the object back, and the other staying with Hintrin to keep him protected, a captain for each group. 

Hintrin took a step, crouched down and peered at one of the fissures. A glimmer of green had caught his eye and he wanted a closer look. Upon further inspection, the dirt of the fissure seemed to conceal a sheen of green creeping beneath the soil. He reached a hand down, the tips of his fingers breached the dirt. A searing pain assaulted the nerves of his fingers and shot up his arm. The man leaped back, howling in agony. The members of the guard perked up, confusion blanketing their startled expressions.

Hintrin looked down at his arm and saw that it was completely drained of color, as white as paper. Gasping, fighting the near unbearable pain throbbing through his arm, he whipped his head around to his guards. They were all still, their faces ridden with disbelief.

“Blessed Vhthenh,” One breathed. 

The guards watched as the rest of Hintrin slowly drained of color, unsure of what to do. None of them had seen anything like what was unfolding in front of them. And so they did nothing but watch as Hintrin became unrecognizable, like an old corpse standing in front of them, howling in pain. With a final eerie rattle escaping his throat, Hintrin collapsed, and as his head hit the blackened dirt it exploded into a cloud of murky white liquid, splattering the faces of the remaining soldiers who stayed ever so still, eyes and mouths gaping, unable to process what they had seen.