Creation- Myth of the Demons, Part 4: Death Wanders

   Braxult recognized the chain. Creator abused created. She reasoned that it was her duty to create and abuse as well. The demon of death needed life to fulfill this need. Only the living would fear dying, which would perhaps be their biggest torment. She stole some of the darkness and molded it with her bare hands. Soon, she had a mass of land floating in a sea of dark, though it barely stayed together. There was no life to be found on it. Braxult realized that, while death can give meaning to life, it can not create it.

   She wandered the darklands alone, not knowing what to do. She came upon Yarllath, hammering upon a great anvil. The sparks shot off into the darkness, casting little patches of light.

  “Well met, sister.” Said Yarllath. “Have you come to fight me? Have you come to glory in the letting of blood? Let us give our father a river of crimson. Let us give our mother the cries of the dying!”

   Braxult smiled, for she knew a secret that none of the rest did. She would be there when they all died, for she was death itself. Though she lived in the darkness, she would one day lead it to its final resting place. Yarllath could do nothing to her.

   “No, my brother. It is what happens after the battle that interests me. I shall soothe the loser and praise the winner. I care not for undecided contests. Mine is a place of resolution. Mine is a place of ends.”

   Yarllath smiled. “And mine is a place of ferocity and honor. Be gone from me, sister. I think you weak.”

   Braxult did as she was told, but not before snatching some of the stray sparks. Cupping them in her hands, she wandered away again, pushing farther into the dark.

   Soon, she came upon Yuzzdil, writhing in the darkness. His/her moans alternated between soft and guttural. Braxult listened, but felt nothing.

   “Have you come to love your sister-brother, Braxult? Come, and loose yourself in my thighs. Come and be filled by me. I will moan or scream or cry, whatever you wish.”

   Braxult smiled. She knew that Yuzzdil would one day send many into her realms.

   “No, sister-brother. The dead have no need for the pleasures of the flesh, for their flesh will but rot away. One day, lives will be lost for lust, though I believe it has other powers too.”

   “The pleasures and pain of the flesh are all there is, Braxult. Be gone from me, sister. You are frigid.”

   Braxult did as she was told, but not before collecting some of Yuzzdil’s spilt seed. Putting it in a little glass vial, she again began to wander.

   Next, she came upon Gul sitting upon a pile of his riches. He eyed her suspiciously as she approached.

   “Have you come to steal my riches, sister? Have you come to take what is mine and only mine?”

   Braxult knew that while her brother always wanted more, he would be all too happy if she would covet what was his.

   “I have not, brother. Though beings will one day be buried with their possessions, the dead carry nothing with them to the next realms. They will be born with naught and will end with the same. You will only know them in the middle.

   “You lie, sister. Everyone wants something. Now be gone. I think you the fool.”

   Braxult did as she was told, but she had lied. While Gul was distracted by his tirade, she had palmed a red ruby and a gold coin. Placing them in a small pouch, she once again wandered.

   Eventually, she heard weeping. Following it, she came upon Bakuritan, alone in the darkness.

   “You have come for no reason, have you sister? There is no reason to any of this. We our riddled by constant loss, yet even that imparts no meaning,” wept Bakuritan.

   Braxult stayed stoic, no emotion on her face.

   “The dead need no meaning, sister. The have as little need for sorrow as they do for joy. I have come with reason, sister, though it be unknown to you.”

   “May you be next in line for father’s fancy, sister. May he torture you until you know nothing but sadness! Now be gone, I think you deceive yourself.”

   Braxult did as she was told, but not before she collected Bakuritan’s tears. Soaking them up in a cloth, she went alone again into the nothing.

   The air began to grow cold around her, causing her skin to burn. Braxult knew this as a sign that their sibling Faqual was near, but they could not see them. Braxult moved silently, trying not to attract attention. Ever was she certain that she was being followed. Ever was there movement out of the corner of her eye.

   “Greetings, Death. You have become lost.”

   The voice came in a thousand whispers, each one cutting into her mind like a knife. Though Braxult trembled, she walked onward.

   “You are reminded of where true power lay now, yes? I can cause armies to run. I make warriors scream. Even death feels fear. Do you bow down before me, sister?”

   Braxult steadied herself and stood straight.

   “No, sibling, I do not. You are strong, it is true, but you are not real. Death is eternal. Death is actual.”

   The whispered turned into a roar. “You are wrong, sister! Now flee, sister! I deem you a coward.”

   Braxult left, but not before collecting ice from her siblings cold breath.

   She did not walk long when loud laughter filled the air. Ashtabula ran forward out of the darkness to greet her.

   “Hello, sister. Have you come to race me? You will lose, for I am the fastest. Have you come to engage me in riddles? You will lose, for I am the smartest. Have you come to wrestle me? You will lose, for I am the strongest.”

   Braxult shook her head. Ashdula was none of these things, but he could not be swayed.

   “I have come to do no such things, brother. Death needs not prove anything. Death’s existence is proof enough and it will someday drive beings to prove themselves against it. None escape it forever, however.”

   “You are wrong, sister. I am the best and you just accept mediocrity. Now be gone. I find you to be inferior.”

   Braxult did as she was told, but not before collecting the air from Ashdula’s boasts in a leather bladder. She walked again into the darkness.

   As she walked, the darkness took on a purplish hue. Flecks of color punctuated with, the likes of which Braxult had never seen. Thathtil Greg Mezzserin sat alone amongst the swirls. Sheb plunged a needle in and out of her stomach, trailing thread behind it.

   “Greetings, sister, lover, hornets nest. Have you come for prophecy? Or a song or painting? Perhaps you’ve come to hear my secrets that none other know. For instance, there is no real difference between a color and a sound. My name means bringer of poisons. My name means bones of the raven. My name means nothing. Will you come play with me, sister? Will you come walk in my fields and burn my mountains?

   Braxult stepped back.

   “I will not, sister. You, of us all, are truly more terrible than me. Your familiars will pray to be released into my care.”

   Thathtil Grog Mezzserin looked up at Braxult. She flicked the needle and thread toward her.

   “You will leave me now, Braxult, but you will take this needle and thread before you do. The road is winding and ever changing. The blood will be born with my gifts. You will know my poetry by its hollow bones. Now go.”

   So Braxult did, silently and without reply.

   The colors faded as she traveled farther away from Thathil Grog Mezzserin. Braxult was quiet and disturbed as she picked her way through the dark lands once again. She was lost in thought, a side effect of seeing her sister. The insanity was contagious and she struggled to shrug it off, her mind swirling in quiet subdued panic.

   So distracted was she that Braxult did not notice she was no longer alone. Her foot slammed into something physical, pulling her back into her current reality. Looking down, she spotted Nuremian, sitting upon the ground. He looked to have lain there a long time. The skin on his ribs clung to them, his stomach distended. Though he could truly not die, Nuremian was starving. A hollow blank look hung in his eyes. He made not a sound, despite the impact.

   Braxult’s eyes swayed a foot away from him. There, on the ground and easily within his reach, was an apple. His hunger obviously caused him great discomfort, yet he could not be bothered to eat. Braxult thought to protest, but realized it was meaningless. Without a word, she picked up the apple and left.

   She wandered then for an age. When she had thought all that she needed to think, Braxult returned to her cold creation. Standing before it was Drexath. Her skin was covered in boils, her breath coming into her lungs in raspy gasps. She seemed frail, yet her strength was found in the frailty. She hissed out her words before Braxult had a chance to inquire as to her presence.

   “You have sought gifts from each of your siblings, save me. You have stolen from them all. Gul must be pleased. Why, sister, have you not sought out a boon from me?”

   Braxult lowered her gaze. She always found her sister’s appearance pleasing, though she was quite certain Yuzzdil had something to do with that. She hesitated for a moment before she spoke.

   “I seek to defy my nature, sister, and create. I do not know that you have anything you can do to assist me. Ours is not the hand of making.”

   Drexath smiled, stepping slowly toward Braxult. The demon of disease’s leathery hand moved to the demon of death’s face, crinkling as it caressed.

   “You will receive a gift from me, sister, though i will happen after your creation is done. I will send to you countless souls over time. War will ravage them and greed with be their undoing. Lust will drive them into madness. Pride and Apathy’s kin will forever remain lovers. It is disease, however, that will offer a bounty unto death.”

   Drexath leaned closer, her bloodied cheek wiping against her sister’s. Her mouth puckered and whispered into her ear.

   “It is I who will fill you, sister.”

   Without another word, Drexath walked away. Braxult watched her until she disappeared into the darkness. She starred in the direction for a long time. Then, she began her work.

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Digging in the Sand

Bones. So many bones. How many people have been buried here?

You find a rusty long sword and a small, golden vulture head worth 250 gp.

Red Sand

The sand here on the edge of the sacrificial ground is loose and looks recently churned.

Vulture Priest

The Vulture Priests are the enemy of knowledge and enlightenment. They seek to bring the eternal silence, the end of all things. Decay and obedience is their only god.

Armor Class 6 [13]
Hit Dice 1 (4hp)
Attacks 1 × Beak (1d4 or by weapon)
THAC0 19 [0]
Movement 120’ (40’)
Saving Throws D12 W13 P14 B15 S16 (1)
Morale 8 (11 when at their temple)
Alignment Lawful
XP 10 
Number Appearing 2d4 (1d6 × 10)
Treasure Type D
Immune to the Divine: The spells and powers of clerics and paladins have no effect on them.
Weapons: They frequently use wickedly curved daggers, which they use for sacrificial purposes.
Soul Clouders: There is a 10% chance that any Vulture Priest can use the sleep spell once per day. The targets are still awake, but they are beset by such a deep depression that it has the same effect as sleep. They may only watch what unfurls around them.