The heavily muscled, fur-clad figure of Al-Akor, the barbarian king of Gar'ova, marched up the crude stone stairs which were engraven into the eastern face of the monolithic ziggurat, which was his latest and most glorious conquest from yet another technically superior race. And, as time would prove, his final. The ziggurat reached up into the sky like a giant claw, dwarfing the horizon itself. He marched, alone, while the amassed hordes of his combined forces turned to ants beneath him. And still he climbed the steps, which none in living memory had scaled, while the air around him turned thinner and less substantial. His mighty chest heaved like a hillside in an earthquake, and still the top was not to be seen. Nor the bottom, which was lost in clouds. A week later, the commander-in-chief of his forces prepared the funeral pyre sadly, looking up into the sky for a sign that his lord had not perished in the unknown. Herds of horses, it seemed, and his majesty's entire concubine surrounded themselves with tinder and doused themselves in oil, in preparation to join their eternal master. And they looked towards this fate as their last mortal duties, that they might serve him twice as well in the afterlife as they did on this mortal earth. These women from all paths of life all held two things in common: a burning desire to service their lord once more, and a gleaming vial of venom clenched to their gratuitous chests. The flaming brand was held steadily ready to be dropped at a moment's glance from the chief, who continued to watch the sky, forlorn and lost. An acrid smell, like that of smoke, briefly irritated the buffed nostrils of the divine warrior as he ascended the celestial staircase, whose steps were getting sharper and sharper. He paused briefly to examine the mummified remains of the God-King Telakpoetl before casually tossing them behind him. The rattles as the exhumation slithered down the stairs grew steadily fainter as the relevation that Telakpoetl had been thought to have ascended to paradise, where he had became a god in his own right. The rapidly dissappearing woven ceremonial bands were evidence to the contrary. Al-Akor would soon replace Telakpoetl in the annals of history, if not the religions of forever, by attempting the same passage. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his hairless biceps as he mounted the endlessly beckoning staircase, but the air around him was too cool to let it evaporate. It had been days since he had seen a bird, and the last plant had been passed hours ago. The infinite stairs, carved by inhuman hands, led upwards, calling him to his eternal destiny, from which he would not emerge a mortal, one way or another. As per orders, a month after his lord's ascention to the Otherworld, the commander ordered the stairs destroyed, that none in the future might attempt such an undertaking. Though the roughly-hewn steps near the bottom crumbled like clay, as they led upwards, the footholds withstoof even the mightiest sledge-blows, and they had to be filled in with sun-baked mud bricks. Even this was not enough to assure the confidence of the faithful lackey, so he ordained the construction of a guard tower at the base of the ziggurat, that should keep the way sealed until the sea reclaimed the earth, and not even the top of the ziggurat should be seen by the few seals and sea birds remaining after the final deluge. Al-Akor furrowed his mighty brows in deep prayer, as his teeth clenched like the crest of a wave coming into shore, and his expression was reminiscent of a savagery which would have shocked Tarzan. For, despite his efforts, which were by no means supernatural, though remained superhuman, he, the Bane of Kelthor, the Maul of the Phareeki was, for the first time in his life, tired. He was praying to his mighty ancestors, though how they could aid him in this situation remained as yet unclear. Wrapping a woven band across his mouth, he hoped that the heady spices of his homeland exuding from the simple scarf would make up for the lack of oxygen in the devil's air that he was breathing. His sinews snapped with cold, his hair was damp with exertion, and his mighty exhalations reverberated with frost. The legs, as sturdy as those of an ox, trembled both with fatigue and sudden hope, as the top of the alien ziggurat was no longer lost in the mists of the heavens. Placing one bare foot gently ahead of the other, as his leathern sandals had long since worn away, the giant among men cleared the final step with a magnamious shudder, as his barely-recognizable frame collapsed to the ground. Yet still he bore enough vitality from his divine parentage to stand tall once more, for the last time, and smooth back his ragged unshorn locks. He arranged his dishevelled lion-skin, and drank a small draught from a yellow gourd which was worn around his neck. The eyes once more lost the look of a lost animal, and regained their commanding, piercing glare. The skin veritably glowed with health, and the muscles bulged as they had never bulged before. Pleased with this, the final potion of his shaman brother, he raised his glance to the stone altar which he knew would be there. As the myths dictated, it stood exactly two cubits tall, and as wide across as three head of oxen. Al- Akor marched up to it with hidden power and deadly intent in his every step. Finally, as the tribal legends foretold, he withdrew Kelthorslayer, and lifted it aloft. Holding it in the air with every muscle in his body tensed, he began to sing. It was not a pleasant song he sung, or even one with a distinct, recognizable tune. But simple auditory enjoyment was not the purpose of this primal chant. As he uttered the guttural lyrics, the voices of his parents arose with his mighty voice, as did the rising chorus of ghosts. Finally, the song reached a climax, and, with a yell that reached the bottom of the ziggurat four days hence, startling the guards to no end, he plunged Kelthorslayer into the altar, all eight feet of it, right to the hilt. The echo of the howl took several seconds to die away. When at last no sound could be heard, one was. The immortal rock itself was churning directly beneath his mighty feet, and an immense hand of stone raised itself above his striking head. An eye opened up in the direct centre of the palm, and a voice rang in his head. "Who art thou, and why hath thee come to disturb our slumber?" Al-Akor, despite his familiarity with the legends, nearly lost his daunting collection at this distinctly impossible sight. However, he managed to regain his wits, and replied, in a calm, controlled voice: "I am Al-Akor, the Bane of Kelthor, the Maul of the Phareeki, and I am here to take my place with the gods as the legends ordained. The stars have foretold my coming for hundreds of years, and I am here at last to claim my divinity." The eye blinked, once, twice. Then the voice spoke again. "You are not the one which the stars spoke of. I should know because I placed them where they are today. Your physical powers are impressive, but you have no control nor wisdom. Whatever possessed your puny mind to aspire a position with the likes of us, the Earth's superiors? No, do not answer. Your answer could only be more uninspired arrogance. Though this blow to your ego will surely defeat you, ultimately, duty requires that I accelerate the process." The hand moved with the swiftness of light and plucked Al-Akor neatly from his perch. Then, with inexorable power, it began to squeeze. The force exerted by this mighty hand was a testament to its divine control, for the banded muscles of Al-Akor could crush ordinary rocks with ease. Finally the gigantic fist could exert no more pressure, yet Al-Akor still lived. This godling among men would not die with such ease. However, though his skin could not be pierced nor his head severed, he died a more ignomious death: the imposing presence of the godly granite prevented his chest from inflating, and without air's blessed kiss, he quickly lapsed into unconciousness, and from there into history. --- The small man on the donkey looked at his mouldering map. Noting the small grass-covered knoll where the tower would have been classically placed, he seemed to be convinced that this was indeed the spot which he sought, and he set up a small camp, surrounded with blazing censers, and mysterious symbols were engraved upon the ground with all manner of mysterious substances. Unpacking all manner of mystical equipment, he meditated for many days and nights, always consulting series of charts and diagrams in regard to the positions of various major bodies in the sky. At last, one night, the preparations were made and completed. He adjusted his loads of jewlery and ornamentations, and made a small gesture towards the top of the frighteningly artificial-looking mountain which imposed its share of the countryside. Then, he was gone, with a small "pop", as several miles worth of atmosphere rushed in to fill the disturbingly small vaccuum he had left behind. The top of the ziggurat-cum-mountain had not been disturbed in the countless centuries since last a mortal dared mount its pristine loftiness. It lay untouched, with the giant fist, frozen in time, still clutching the abnormally large bones of what would be the remains of Alkador, if the records proved to be correct. Kelthorslayer lay, gleaming, imbedded in the stoney altar whose corners had remained as sharp as knives throughout the milennia. And then the small bearded man was there. He withdrew a long bone pipe from his multi-coloured patched robes, and began to thoughtfully smoke a substance not found on this world, while pacing back and forth, examining his surroundings. He noted the bones and fist with interest, gave Kelthorslayer passing interest, and momentarily defied the laws of physics by walking eight feet off the edge of the mountain. As he was in the middle of blowing a particularly garish smoke ring, he noticed his predicament, and, coughing, scampered back onto the smooth plateau with calm strides of slippered feet. Taking one long, last chestful of smoke, he set the pipe down and played idly with a bejewelled silver ring on his right hand. It twinkled slightly, and Kelthorslayer did likewise, as it arose, effortlessly, out of its home of the ages. The mage's eyes glinted beadily, and the sword swung a few lazy arcs before it came crashing lazily back into the altar. No hand appeared. Yet the voice came once more. "Who art thou, and why hath thee come to disturb our slumber?" The man, unfazed by this display arcane, proceeded to haughtily address the voice: "I am Akeinos, Master of the Fourteen Spheres of Thaumaturgy, Regent of the Order of the White, Entropic Lord, and Grand Master of Flowers." To illustrate the latter, he, standing a goodly eight feet away from the altar, applied his hand perpendicularly to its face and made a sharp exhilation. The whole mass crumbled into round pebbles no larger than your thumbnail. "I have spent more than five men's lifetimes researching lore and making calculations. The time has come for a new god to ascend in the heavens, and I have the combined research of several wizardly institutions to back me up." "You have fooled yourself, even as you tried to fool us. The time is not yet right for the ascention, and you shall pay for both your mishap, as one did before you, and your trickery." The gnomish fellow looked rather smug with himself until, to his horror, a second metamorphic hand emerged from the floor, not in front of him, but exactly eight feet to the right. As the hand slowly turned into a fist, the man slowly rose into the air, and concave markings appeared on his body. "Bloody Hell," was the only thing he managed to exclaim before the five fingers, which still grasped air, were dyed red with blood. --- As the wailing noise died away, the power suit discarded its aerial unit and marched to the exact centre of the plateau. It then tested the calculations of the on-board computer by simultaneously shooting fifteen separate titanium-tipped darts into the most probable former locations of the altar. Number eight elicited a seismic response, and by the time the third hand had appeared, it was already being attacked by diamond drills. As it crumbled, porous and punctured, a fourth hand formed. The jump jets of the suit went into play as the marine inside went for defensive action E-15, and hand number two soon became a small puddle of magma, thanks to a quick corrosive spray. Landing again, the radar told him that the zone was no longer active, and the suit detached a small beacon from the power armour's exterior and planted it in the first quadrant of the plateau, which would become a landing pad. As a gust of wind momentarily threw the suit off-balance, the newly created rubble and debris blinded the marine for a few seconds, and he could hear the pebbles and blobs of lava bombarding the exterior of the suit. Fortunately, it was insulated both from standard thermal and kinetic damage, but he was most dismayed to discover that an errant globule of molten rock had damaged his radio antenna beyond repair. He was also distressed to no end to discover, several minutes later, that the air valves on the suit had been encrusted with a thin layer of molten rock. Permanent brain damage began three minutes later, and death shortly ensued. The undamagable suit, worth billions in taxpayer dollars, powered down, its panels covered in a fine layer of dust, and the whole affair collapsed, quite neatly, squarely on the beacon. The red, white, and blue logo on the armour's shoulder continued to sparkle quite prettily for hundreds of years. --- The obscenely red sun glared balefully down on the small sandy patch of rock, mere hundreds of feet above the encroaching desert. The hands had long since begun to be eaten away by the blasting sandstorms, and the only sign that they had once been of import lay in the impeccable yet impossibly undamaged gleaming figure, reflecting the dull sun's rays off of its vaguely humanoid features. The haggard man climbed slowly but surely up the sand-eaten path, clutching at patches of desert grass for handholds. Occasionally he would pause on his way up to excavate some precious edible roots, or to rest in the valuable shade. The noises of his flock of sheep, below, reminded him of the urgency of his mission, and he continued to scale the worn-away path. In time, he reached the top, and was not at all surprised by what he found. He sadly kicked the empty suit which still stared at him hauntingly as a spectre from the past. He scattered the handful of golden shards which lay in a small heap beneath the clutching hand whose red fingers had long since been bleached black. He smiled in vague reminiscence at the twisted shard of heat-warped metal which had once been the mighty Kelthorslayer, as he lifted it with great effort. With a grunt, he cast it down again at the ground, and called out the name of his god. The hand appeared very slowly, and it was much smaller than the others. The single eye opened in the dead middle of the palm, and blinked a few times. "Who art thou, and why hath thee come to disturb our slumber?" The voice might have been the mere whispering of the wind, but this man knew better. "My name is of no import, but I bear grave news as my reasoning. I am the last one. In all my travels of sixty years, I have not seen a fellow man. Signs of my brethren's prior habitation are abundant, but they have gotten more dilipadated with every passing year. Many of these monuments to their hedonism will be unrecognizable within a mere five or ten years. My life is hopelessly futile without them, however. How can I expect to propagate my species with only one of me? I ask you to merely ratify my dilemma, one way or another." The man looked helplessly old and lost, behind sun-tanned leather and unshorn stubble, and his claims were the most terrible truth he could bear. "So be it." The breathless voice seemed pleased with itself, after these countless aeons of solitude. Finally it would have a companion. The only man ever to truely deserve it recieved what all the others had demanded. With a gust of wind, the man's clothing fell to the ground, empty. If anyone had been there to observe, they would have noticed the hands and even the entire table crumbling as if it were made of sand. Soon there was nothing but the blowing of the wind and the noises of the sheep, and even the latter ceased after they wandered off, on their own for the first time. Man and the Gods were given their proper places on the Earth, finally, after an evolutionary lifetime. SAUCE00Man and his Gods Cthulu MiSTiGRiS 19950716ØCP