The Wordbearer Chronicles

Chapter 2

In my travels, I have learned that each nation has its own pantheon of gods. Indeed, the borders of nations are, first and foremost, based around creed before being further refined by things such as race or geography. 

Here in Elysium they are devoted to Risha, Kurdu, and Ard Agdawn. In Dromatica it is the All Father, Tliamach, and Ismadrial. The lizardmen have the dualities of nature, Sol'Crogya and Sol'Illver. Khanhein gives worship to Hastar, Aegas, Morradrin, and Caelis. Even my homeland of Varasht has Theris, Corsiac, Rath-ul im-Ashad, Dotor, Chamat-Izad and a dozen more. The gods hold providence over their worshipers and, in turn, their worshipers empower the gods with influence on the Material plane. 

 While there are few who would deny the existence of the First God, there is endless debate over its aspects. There are many who call Her Nur Ngal the Everlasting with the very Elements at Her behest. She is light, She is creation, She is good. Others see Him as Ner Ngal the Apocalypse whose purview is death and the End of all things. Most of these fools form asinine death cults and sacrifice livestock, or worse, in His name. He is darkness, He is destruction, He is evil. Because of this, widespread worship of Ngal is limited and most would find a way to excuse themselves if a person admitted to worshiping the Ner aspect. 

They are just fools though. I see the truth that those cultists never will and what ignorant peasants overlook. Ner Ngal is the Keeper of the Void, the First God, The Apocalypse, Entropy, Darkness, and Death. He is the Truth. 

All things must come to an end. All men die, all crops wilt and, one day, there won't be another to rise in its place. What those feeble-minded cultist get wrong is that this does not mean to rush headlong into the Void. The End will come when He chooses. Killing a goat or a person does not honor Him. Ner Ngal is the Reaper of All Creation and will harvest from goat and person and field and god alike when the End comes at last. To forsake life is to undermine Him. 

I try to stamp out Ner Ngal cultists wherever I learn of them. Their filth is an affront to His name and their delivery to the Void can come none too soon. I do not think Ner Ngal needs me to, but I do not think He minds either. 

I need no temple or effects to give Him worship. A prayer in my heart and a devoted mind are the correct offering for the God who possesses creation already. I believe my devotion is my choice, not foreordination, so it is something He would not possess unless I gave it. 

Here, in virtuous Elysium, my devotion to Ner Ngal would likely see me banished from the realm. I elect to not be banished from yet another place so I keep that secret to myself. In general, I keep to myself. It's not all that difficult, I must admit. There are advantages to being thought of as a monster.

I am assigned to the medic division. In the march back to Nodkis I had been routed from Sergeant to Lieutenant to Major to Colonel until coming to stand before Chief Medic Artin. Unlike other refugee-conscripts who are fueled by a sentimental rush to fight for their home, I have already negotiated a wage. 

As an apothecary I am adequate, though I've had no formal training. Through my travels I spent years at a time away from civilization and I learned to create my own remedies from a combination of books and my own intellectual observation. In Nodkis I made the usual concoctions: anesthetics, cough remedies, laxatives, oils and acids for cleaning, ointments to aid with conception, potions to stop conception, and cosmetics. Due to my proximity to the bad side of town, however, it was not long before I was being commissioned to create poisons as well. 

I choose to omit that when I list my skills to the Chief Medic. The aged man is kindly, yet strict, and treats me like a fresh recruit despite my age and experience. He is short, touched with grey on what hair remains, and uncannily lithe like a woman. It doesn't help that he often stands akimbo with both hands resting, palm up, on his hips. The pièce de résistance of the whole thing is his sizable potbelly that swings like a laden waterskin when he walks. I can already see that I will have a hard time taking him seriously and he will have a hard time trusting me.