The mouth of Tombaka a'Zul loomed like the gasping maw of a buried leviathan, a shadowed hole in the base of the sacred cairn from where the Thunder God was once born. Ancient moss-covered stalactites and stalactites lined the cave mouth like the teeth of a great and terrible creature. The Ash-Kar Elders had taught for generations of the first great earthquake which had given birth to thunder; a quake of such magnitude that the earth had split apart like the labia of a mother in labour, and Tombaka a'Zul had burst open, releasing the God entity Zul to the skies where it had ruled as mightiest of all the Spirit-Gods since; spreading its lighting seed across the sky, and giving birth to the sun and the twin moons. It was the most sacred place in Tel Mudera to the Ash-Kar, the place where the Elders and Priestesses went to die. None who entered and stood before the ancient effigy of Zul, carved centuries before by some forgotten devotant, and gazed upon its true face were permitted to leave alive. It was their place of power. The beating, raging heart of the Ash-Kar.
But of late, an insidious wrongness had whispered from the cave mouth like a rank wind; the vile scent of rot, decay and corruption. The Elders had studied it, consulted the flames, heard the whispers and saw woe in their fires. Death was spreading across the plains, through the jungle, from Tombaka a'Zul. Doom for all men. The signs were clear; plainsfolk spoke of unnatural howls in the jungle. Whole groves of dead plants, dead trees and dead beasts. Entire villages cleared of people; at first, seeming as if they had fled, but now the Elders saw something darker in the abandonment. A mother suckling her child lactated blood from her breast instead of milk. The wood and bone altar to the Thunder God in the Ash-Kar village had begun to decay unnaturally rapidly. Strange sickness had spread amongst the young of the tribe, a feverish malaise. And worst of all, there had been no word or sign from their God. The plains themselves held their breath as the storm had refused to come for a full moon now; no rain, no thunder, just a dead and disturbing calm. The Elders had called a conclave. In fevered desperation they called for more piety; perhaps they had displeased their God, and must appease it with human sacrifices, bloodletting, ritual suicides, orgies...
Only Zoran had stated what needed said. There was corruption there now, and he must go and cleanse it. If it could be saved, he would save it. However, if the Thunder God had fallen to some corrupting malaise or woe, then he would go to Tombaka a'Zul and end it himself. If God had to die for the good of his people, Zoran would be the one to slay it.
The blasphemous declaration, that he would somehow bend the Thunder God to the Ash-Kar's will or worse, kill it if it had fallen to corruption, sent shockwaves of terror, doom and anger through the conclave. No man could stand against their God, it was folly, heresy, to even suggest it. But Zoran was unmoved, resolute.
Despite the wailing and gnashing of the Elders, the cries of Blasphemy, the threats of banishment or worse, Zoran had come to Tombaka a'Zul to put an end to the Thunder Gods corruption, one way or another. Not as a selfless act of heroism, however; but because Ossisoul had told him to do so. This was how he would save the Ash-Kar, he was told. How he would make them mighty and whole. How he would lead them to eternal life and immortal dominance of the plains...
"Your god, in fact, all of the gods the peoples of Tel Mudera worship, are no more 'god' than you or I. At best, they are simply forces of nature which would go on existing whether you superstitiously sacrifice brother and sister and beast in their name, pray and genuflect and flagellate yourself to them or not. The rain, wind, sunlight, the moons, storms; they are things. Elements. Uncaring, unfeeling. You can not appease them, nor appeal to them any more than you can to the mud at your feet."
Ossisoul sat casually, one leg crossed under the other on a tree stump, in the shadowed copse by the riverbank he had first met Zoran three moons ago. Their secret rendezvous', like lovers from rival tribes, had been a regular occurrence since that first night they had met. Ossisoul spoke in casual blasphemies and a seemingly inhuman, utterly alien parlance, of things and places Zoran did not comprehend; but his words and actions and undeniable power had gradually and completely seduced Zoran. Had Ossisoul not so strenuously denied and derided the notion, Zoran might have believed him a god too.
He finished stirring the sweet, honeyed tea he had been brewing over a small flame in the tree stump hollow and carefully poured some into a bronzed cup. He held the cup out to Zoran. "Careful now, my lord. It's hot."
The scalding brass burned Zorans hand, but he held on, grimacing, showing no sign of weakness. Ossisoul was mighty, as close to a god as any man Zoran had met, and yet he called Zoran 'my lord'. Truly, Zoran mused as he lifted the burning brass cup to his lips, that was proof enough of his destiny. Ossisoul grinned that black toothed rictus, a sign of approval; the cup never seemed to burn him. He continued, as he tidied away the remnants of the tea set into a black leather shoulder bag and produced a small spherical glass jar.
"At worst, these so-called gods are naught more than demons." He snorted derisively. "Not even the Princes of the Seven Hells! Simple lackeys; opportunistic diabolical creatures masquerading as the divine, granting the most paltry morsels of power in exchange for mortal flesh and soul. Oh, believe me, I do see the attraction. Such practices were not uncommon even in Nazadstok's storied history. That is, until the third sorcerer king, Casimir the Pious, outlawed the worship of diabolical entities, making it a crime punishable by death. Too many cults popping up and besmirching the newly civilised nation with their barbaric practices, you see." Ossisoul raised a fist in mock salute. "Blood for breakfast! Blood for lunch! Child sacrifice before supper!" He chuckled. "In truth," he unscrewed the jar and sniffed it, seemingly satisfied. "Casimir saw that communion with denizens of the Seven Hells was an easy, some might say efficient route to magickal power which threatened the monopoly of the Sorcerer King's rule. And as usual, it was one law for the people, another for the rulers. Not a hundred years after that decree, the Sixth Sorcerer Queen Svetlana was exiled for Congress with Demons."
His words were meaningless to Zoran, but they carried an indefinable weight and stirred something within Zoran; they were like fables, faerie tales. He listened, enrapt, kneeling in the dried mud before Ossisoul. "More's the pity; there's one I would have enjoyed serving. By all historical accounts she was a true beauty, a fearless sorcerer, and ever so generous with her cunt once suitably in her cups."
He motioned to the cup in Zorans hand.
"Drink."
The tea was sweet, cloyingly so, but with a strange acrid aftertaste the honey didn't quite smother completely. It was hot in his chest, and he felt his stomach churn as he swallowed it down, but he gritted his teeth, his muscles taut; holding it in. Zoran nodded, impressed. "That's it, my lord. The effect will take hold sooner than you think. You will feel emboldened, a furious lust in your veins, like you could rut endlessly. But contain yourself."
Quickly, the tea's effects took hold. Zorans head began to swim, the dim greens and browns of the dusk riverbank becoming vivid, the sound of the trickling river becoming like music. His cock swelled between his legs, harder, thicker than ever before; the dark veins throbbing, his purple cock head swollen and smooth, gleaming, pre-cum already dripping from the slit, his balls feeling heavy and tight, warm and tingly. He gasped as the thrilling bliss of the tea coursed through his body like a hundred orgasms. Even Ossioul, his confidante, his servant with the pale drawn burned features, eyes like death and night, black teeth, looked like an angel in this state of being. Zoran would have fucked him there and then had he less control. He reached for his cock, the gentlest touch of his calloused fingers sending ecstatic shockwaves through his body.
"What is this?" he breathed, slowly stroking his mighty engorged prick.
Ossisoul handed him the jar, black eyes watching with cold intent as Zoran stroked himself in front of him, the slightest tug of amusement on his rictus.
"A simple aphrodisiac of my own making. It will heighten your senses in some ways, increase your already considerable sexual stamina, and dull your senses in other ways. Make you more pliable, susceptible to suggestion, and more resistant to pain." He motioned to the jar. "Now, fill it, please."
