A Foreign Realm (Mianite One-Shots)

The Tears of Men and Gods (Motanite)

((Mot returns to Urulu a few moments too late and the course of history is changed forever.))

Mot paused just for a moment, tugging on the reins of his horse to make it stop. He'd just crested the final hill, reaching the top of the highest dune that offered the best view of the city.

Urulu stood proud, the desert city wavering in the heat of the day. The sun beat down from overhead, reflecting off the rooftops and adding a sparkle to the city's aura. Even from this distance, he could hear the faint music already beginning to fill the air. Noontime was almost upon them, and Mot knew that the third and final day festival would soon be in full force. He wished he'd been able to be there for the whole entire thing, but godly business isn't something that can be scheduled.

He clutched the satchel at his side tighter than before, knowing that if nothing else would please Dianite, the totem that he'd recently required from a water sprite would. They'd had a dry summer so far, and water supplies had been running low. Tensions with Mianite weren't offering any help from that realm, and Ianite had no abilities that would help them even if she wanted to.

The festival was both a midsummer celebration and a subtle prayer to anyone that could help them. That was why Dianite had sent Mot out on such a long quest; he wanted to be the one to restore the people's faith. It was also why Mot had rushed to return by the end of the festival. He observed the city for a few more moments before mounting his horse once more and galloping towards the city border.

The closer he came towards the city, the louder and happier the music and cheers sounded. He dismounted his horse at the stables, briefly instructing a stablehand before gathering the spoils of his travels. Carefully, he pulled out the relic. The object in question was an ornate statue made out of a clear blue stone that reflected light in all directions.

It was very nice to look at, but Mot could sense the power buried within the relic. It would serve it's purpose: rejuvenating the land and restoring faith in the people at the same time. Dianite would be beyond pleased that he'd managed to get in time for the final day of the festival.

Mot paused just outside the main city gates, taking a moment to dust some of the desert sand off of his clothes. He took a couple deep breaths then entered the center city. The festival was at the very highest tier of the city, directly under the shadow of statue. The sounds of laughter and brass instruments made a small smile break out across the champion's face.

Still, the only thing that kept him moving forward at such a pace, the only thing that had let him ride for three days straight with no rest in order to be back before the end of the festival, was the vaguest image of how happy Dianite would be to see his champion return just in time.

Yes, Dianite would be most pleased.

* * * * *

Mot was in the middle of passing through the final gate when the screaming started. Immediately he broke into a sprint, sending hobgoblins and villagers alike flying as he vaulted over the barrier and headed right for where the chaos seemed to be coming from: the festival square. Sure enough, he was soon fighting against a tide of terrified people who were trying to flee away from something- or someone.

"Alyssa! Alyssa!" Mot shouted, shoving his way past a group of terrified hobgoblins who were running in circles, all dignity or purpose forgotten. "Alyssa, where are you?" She had been attending the festival, and he feared she had been involved with whatever malignant event that had just occurred.

The first thing he saw was the city guards. He passed two on his way into the main square, both lying still with their armor stained red with the blood that was still seeping out of the wound left by the blade that had pierced cleanly through their chest-plates.

Mot didn't even pause as he sprinted past the gore, his only focus being finding the people he loved. When he, by some miracle, collided with Alyssa, his panic halted for a moment.

"Alyssa! Thank the lord you're alright!" Mot cried, lifting her into the air in a tight embrace. "What happened?" He asked, painfully aware of the tear tracks streaking down the young child's face.

"Dianite- he's- assassin-" she stuttered and Mot set her back on the ground and took off once more, a new fear chilling his polluted blood.

"Dianite!" Mot shouted, his heart stopping in his chest. The royal guards. A select group of highly-trained individuals, the royal guards were among some of the best fighters there were. All ten of them lay scattered about, staring blankly into nothingness. All dead.

Panic stalling his half-turned heart, Mot turned his attention to the royal float. No.

"DIANITE!" He screamed, watching as his god fell to the ground, a thin black sword blade protruding from his chest. His attacker, a shadowy figure with a fully-cloaked body and face, turned to face Mot for half a second. Mot's sword appeared in his hand as he changed his course, heading right for the shadowy figure.

He got within ten feet before the shadow fled. Within half a second, it was halfway across the square. It moved with inhuman speed and stealth, out of reach before Mot could even think about attacking it.

Mot faced an impossible choice: pursue the attacker and prevent it from returning to wreak havoc on the city, or return to his god. He paused, hesitating. The shadow took one glance back at him, and for a fraction of a second a blinding white smile crossed its hooded face before it vanished, fleeing at an unmatchable pace.

Abandoning that line of action, Mot turned back to where the lord had last been seen. "Dianite!" He cried, approaching the fallen god. Golden ichor, the blood of the immortals, had begun to pool around his feet.

The red-skinned god lay still. Too still. "Dianite?" Mot asked quietly, dropping to his knees. "My lord?" No response. The god was unmoving.

The reality of the situation crashed over Mot like a wave of icy water. "Impossible." He whispered, shaking the god's still-warm shoulder roughly. "Snap out of it! You should be healed by now! Come on, wake up!"

With a soft thump, the statue fell out of his bag. It fell into a pool of ichor and glowed brightly with a sudden light. It had been activated.

"Dianite, say something!" Mot said. "It's gonna rain any moment now, and you hate the rain, remember?" Mot said. No response. The god was silent and still as the guards that had fallen before him.

The same disease that had given him his mottled complexion had destroyed the tear ducts in his eyes, but the rain that began to pour from the suddenly clouded sky was close enough. Mot cradled Dianite's head in his lap, stroking his face ever so gently even as the heat began to fade from his fiery skin.

Thunder crashed and lightning illuminated the fallen god and his champion who had returned barely a moment too late to save him. The immortal had died, and no soul alive knew if he could be revived.

Mot closed his eyes, letting the water stream down his face as his body shook despite the numbness. If the tears of men and gods were pooled, the oceans would be twice as deep. And so there he drowned, sinking like a rock beneath the rising tide.