Wishes of the Thrones

The bone hammer slammed down with great force, a loud echo filled the room. The rabbling voices immediately fell silent. All eyes turned to the Thrones that sat on high, and more importantly, to the Sacred Triad.

The black Thrones were embedded in the wall above the Table of Time. Flames surrounded the table that held the story of all life, casting shadows that flitted about the figures that occupied the Thrones of Eld. From their vantage point, the Sacred Triad could read the tale of every life that ever was. They were the true creators of all, responsible for everything, living or dead. Not that those above knew that fact. In fact, it was due to this lack of knowledge above that the Triad had summoned their fellow demons for this grand meeting. Millennia had passed without the genuine word of the Triad and other Great Ones being heard untainted and unstained by the ears of all they had created. The charlatans had from the onset outmaneuvered their creators, becoming far too clever too quickly. The lore they manifested cast the Triad and their brethren as the opposite of what they were: the ones whom they owed their very existence to. But the ones above thought them to be bad for them, and to be avoided at all cost.  No amount of good deeds for the ones above changed their minds. In fact the charlatans had managed at every turn to be step ahead of them, claiming credit for their good fortunes. It was maddening for the Triad, yet they held fast to the knowledge that they were indeed the ones who were harbingers of good, despite the excellent public relations the charlatans maintained. But now…they had gone too far.

Baal stood tall at his Throne, great hammer in hand. His long dark red horns arched up over his head and back, flames racing along them, dancing their dance. His eyes were bright yellow and sulfurous. The demons below remained silent, knowing the fury that came with Baal’s eyes filling with that color. Smoke swirled and eddied around his massive chest and arms that were so dark that he nearly blended in with the Throne behind him. He was a terrible, beautiful sight.

“Great ones! Demons! My fellow Triads! We have since time immemorial stayed below where even we were birthed, building and planning, imparting life where we believed such things would do the most good for our world. We did so with optimism and pride in our creations, thinking that we had bestowed the lands above with so many gifts and opportunities to thrive that we could let it grow of its own accord, and bask in the glory of it all. We were certain of our success.”

As he paused, he looked to his right where Focalor rested upon his Throne of Eld. He nodded his great goat head back in acknowledgement. Baal then looked to his left at Raum, darkly enchanting in her Throne, bright crystal blue eyes in a crow’s head atop a voluptuous naked female body that had been the model for the women of those above. She cawed curtly in the direction of Baal, the king of the Sacred Triad. He continued.

“Alas, we were overconfident, or at best, we underestimated the guile of one of our creations. The charlatans – “ A great cacophony of hisses, growls, and insults roused from the gathering “- proved too clever by far. We were arrogant, you see.” Baal spread his arms wide. “And oh, how they took advantage of that. Spreading falsehoods. Lying to advance their selfish desires. After we gave them all, they decided that all belonged to them.”

The nods in the crowd of horned heads, strange sounds that lent agreement. They were rapt.

“And for the most part, we have taken the higher road, ignoring the insults and outright fabrications. The charlatans even went so far as to construct an adversary, a nemesis for the very beings who granted their existence. They had many names in many places, but each amounted to the same thing: a refutation of their true creators. We endured indignations. The Crusades. Witch trials. Exorcists. Metal music. All have been construed as instruments towards the wrong path, towards US. All in an effort to convince their fellow fakirs to walk away from the truth and towards falsities. There have been elaborate cons to bond their followers to their leaders and their beliefs. They lost their way. But this could be understandable, for we gave them the ability to choose their own path more so than any other. It was a grand experiment. To see the way our brilliance would manifest itself in our children. Those children, however, turned out to be bad seeds, ruining the garden that they were given and that sustains them.”

More nods of agreement. Grunts and hoots urge Baal for more.

He slammed his hammer down again on the arm of the Throne. A thunderclap resounded over the demons. His family, the ones who absorbed the lion share of abuse from those above. He felt their power and their pain. And it empowered him.

Baal roared, their strength flowing through him. “They DARE try to destroy what we have created, what we have cultivated, from the beginning of time!? In the name of a God, a concoction, a forgery, of their true masters? They DARE invoke a false deity to enable the destruction of the Earth, to end the beauty we have given them!? I SAY NO!” Baal’s voice lowered. “It is time to lay claim to what is ours and concede the great experiment has failed. There is evil in this world, my brothers and sisters. They have tried to brand us with that moniker. They will fail in that effort. It is time..” Baal paused for effect, but also to scan the faces of his family for reassurance and support. “…for humans, the great bane of Earth, the EVIL that they believe is us, to be eliminated. For the good of all, and the good of all our creatures. Humans shall perish.”

Baal raised his arms in triumph. Focalor and Raum each clenched their fists on one of his hands in solidarity.

The demons roared and pumped their hands, claws and hoofs. The sounds of agreement were deafening.

“GO FORTH!” Baal exclaimed.

And they did.

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Game Master

How he loved to move the pieces. His own game that he created to occupy his lonely mind lay before him, having grown beyond anything he had ever imagined. No one else could move the pieces, but the pieces could and did move themselves, often in random ways that surprised him. That was the fun of it though. He knew too much, and relished any time that chaos and chance happened. It pushed the boredom back, even if only for a few moments, and made him feel alive.

Since the game began, he watched as it grew. Slowly at first, then picked up steam, and now was bordering on being too much to manage; too many pieces on the board. That was bullshit though. He got off on the challenge of such a complex thing. The more pieces in play, the better. There were times when the pawns made plays that he could not have come close to anticipating that almost ended the game, but he was gifted at restoring just enough balance insure that did not happen. This was HIS GAME, dammit, and if anyone was going to end it, he was. And so he watched and schemed, enacted complex plans and introduced twists that altered the course of the game. He was completely engrossed in his creation. Nothing else mattered but the game. It was his life, his purpose. He was consumed by it, in all its sprawling glory.

He looked at each strategy he was employing and how the pieces were reacting. There were some scenarios that were not going as planned, but he knew that he had it under control. He could introduce a new player to tame the ones that were causing upheaval in places he didn’t necessarily want to worry about at the moment. Another tactic he used with great efficiency was to enforce the rules that had been laid out at the beginning of the game. As always, time had a way of blurring the concrete necessity of these rules, and truth be told, he sometimes became so involved in the game and its intrigues that he neglected to penalize the guilty ones who took liberties with his guidelines. When he finally did police the members of the game, he was swift and harsh in dealing with those who played loose and fast with the rules. Banishment was not uncommon, but was reserved for the most atrocious offenders. He was not above torturing players in order to understand the level of their transgressions and know who was complicit in their treachery. He wielded vengeance as righteousness, and woe to those who questioned his methods or laws.

One of his greatest tools was doubt. Sowed into the minds of specific pieces, it made for interesting outcomes. He sometimes chuckled at his genius in introducing this as an element of the game. Such was the subtle power of this weapon that it could creep into those he chose to raise to a level of importance and obliterate their very existence, causing them to spiral downward into despair.

He would, on occasion, allow cooperation and compassion to take hold of large swaths of the pawns in the game. This had benefits that suited him; vast societies were built, measures taken to help those in need, and happiness spread enough that the idea of hope was a burgeoning concept.

He could not let that sort of thing stand, though. He needed things like fear, and worry, and distrust, and hatred to have sway. It was so much more FUN when the pieces were at odds with one another. Peace was boring, and he could not suffer any more boredom. So he made certain that unrest was near constant. He stoked the fires of feuds. He changed physical elements of the game without telling the players. He especially loved adding natural calamities to the mix because they allowed a small bit of cooperation and empathy to come forth, but the devastation and unrest that resulted were too delicious to ignore. He giddily clapped his hands when violence erupted as a direct result of his modifying the elements of the game itself.

Once, on a whim, he decided the game needed a full reset. He decided to take an ironic tact; the board had substantial water pockets. What if he just…added more water? The chaos that would make would be absolutely beautiful. He entered the change, and within minutes pain and death filled the board, and he was pleased with his ad lib. With but a few pieces in play, however, he grew impatient and bored. In a fit of brilliance he decided to make himself known to the participants. But he did so cryptically, and in vastly different locales, and awaited the results.

Rather quickly, different versions of his story (which he imparted to each group of players in the exact same manner, to see how or if it would take) were recounted and written down. To his complete and utter surprise, the pieces of the game closest to each place he downloaded his story began following the version that was regaled by the recipients, even citing it as the only version of the story that could possibly be true. The factions argued and fought. Violence escalated beyond anything he ever saw. There were battles, great and small, and outright atrocities committed that even he, in his constant state of depravity, could not have envisioned. He reveled in his ability to manipulate the game, to make the pieces move as he wished.

He contemplated the names he was festooned with from the players: Yahweh, Mohammed, Odin, God, Satan, Jehovah, Allah, Krishna, The All, Alpha, Omega, Osiris, and a host of others. Strange and wondrous they all were, and how lovely that they made the game so much more fun and interesting for him.

He moved the pieces as he always did, and adored the chaos that ensued.

Oh how he loved to move the pieces.