Apostasy

My name is Krumatoa Amon. It has first been the honor, and then the shame, of my life, to be a Krismoy warrior of the Theobuls, privileged to earn foreknowledge of the place and time of my death, and I have sworn to know no fear until then. That, at the least, has not changed.

I have hunted for prophets false and true, those who see things which were not meant to be known and overcome them and their guardians so they might receive the Theobuls’ justice. I’ve endured the terror and pain of battle for them, killed for them, known nothing but service to them. As they are the instruments of the Gods, so was I.

I once carried my billowing Profession of Faith across every border into every land, and over the course of one hundred battles, never once did I allow it to touch the ground.

The very same sits beside me now. I have torn it to pieces, used it to dress my wounds, even slept on it. It it as torn and dirty as a rag. The holy words, “The Pantokrator’s will alone is the animus of the world. The Gods are His hands, the Eumoi are his instruments, our Kings are His works. Forever, forever, forever,” can no longer be read.

My name, the Rushing Bull, was once written across the Domaen, and I humbled many challengers in the name of the Theobuls, and exhorted those with honor to devote themselves to holier pursuits. I have fought many at once and ended battles without fighting, I have been humbled and I have hosted grand events and been honored by the words of my betters. I have since washed my hands in the ivory bowl, and I will never again show the sign of the chains to an opponent.

I renounce all stations and titles. All those except the ones gifted to me by my mother, and I will take no others for whatever short time I may continue to live after this writing. I realize now that these many accomplishments were hollow, they had no meaning and no purpose, and all I had cultivated was a prideful nature; that mighty fortress of a body and legend was built on a foundation of shifting sand.

If you have found this account, then you know that I have secreted myself into isolation. It’s not uncommon for warriors of a certain age. Yes, I have felt my reflexes slow and known pain more deeply, but I am not for surrender. In these abandoned halls that were once holy, I have trained more fiercely than ever. You will wonder why. Why abandon what I have built?

Two moons and three years from today, Kremel, Asha, Samasad and Ifa were unjustly killed. My mother and her three sisters.  All four were holy women, riders and rangers, and despite their age, never gave up their duties collecting sacred material from fallen stars; their work gilded many temples and forged countless holy instruments, and never failed to meet the target of prophecy. They were unjustly killed by Yageyos, one of the sons of God, and crushed under his stone foot despite knowing the secret words to placate him and mark themselves as his servants.

All this I have learned form the acolytes that followed them on their duties, and I have visited the crater and laid their struggling remains to rest. The Gods are not kind. Most know this, but on that day, and the days since, when I petitioned for a reckoning, I learned that they are cruel.

As a warrior, I have seen petty tyrants refuse judgement before, as if authority or lineage could protect them from divine justice, if there is such a thing. Perhaps it is a delusion of mine, but I see no difference now: the vain, cruel, wicked, violent, evil, must be abjured, rebuked, challenged and destroyed. So I have dedicated myself like never before to the furtherance of my own warrior’s power.

I have broken shields and spears with my hands and feet, endured deadly fires and biting cold and turned aside charging beasts; external power is no stranger to me, but the internal has always eluded my understanding. My teachers once told me that gifts of the former inhibit the latter; that it was too easy for me to rely on my height and broad stature and that my mind would never truly need internal power. They may have been right, but the combination of dawning age and grief have forced me to accept this need.

I began with meditation. Incense and herbs. Over the course of many terror-filled nights and feverish days of held concentration, I have met with all my past lives, and enlisted all of their aid.

I apologize for all the grudges I have settled in exchange, and should I survive, I welcome any due vengeance.

On my journey to fulfill all these obligations, I have mastered all the fighting arts known to my previous selves, and in doing so have obtained freedom from the self.

In the cave of my former master of the Ruining Arts I sustained enough fire to melt away the ice she condemned herself to and freed her body so that it might be properly laid to rest.

I fought the sorcerer Bail, who terrorized the marshes of Vengel with predatory fog, braved his maze of reeds and split his chest with a single kick.

I hunted the demigod vagrant Samuthra, who so hated their parentage, and grappled with them in the sands for two days and two nights before they fell, exhausted to the ground, and I burned them away with the fire of my body.

When the Quarters branded me an apostate, I felt no fear. When they sent Quarter-knights to kill me, I killed each one in turn; I felt no fear, all they did was hone my training, and besides, as a once-servant of the Theobuls, my fate was already known to me.

I challenged Yageyos on the slope of a mountain and fought with the beast, but I made little impact in its stone hide, and without eyes, mouth or nose, I could find no weakness to strike at, but having lured the creature into the path of a heavy avalanche I forced it to tumble down the mountain and retreat from me.

I now camp here in an empty temple, waiting the challenge. My fists are bruised and my mouth still bleeds, but I hold to my oath and feel no fear. I know that the challenge will come soon, and so I sit here by the light of burning scrolls and what was once a hall of scribes and do my best to quiet my mind.

Let it be writ here: I challenge the Pantokrator to retribution for the mis-deeds and cruelty of his children and servants. Face me now. I will kill as many of your spawn as I must. If only one shred of me is remembered, let it be this defiance.

I could not attain enlightenment; I failed as my past incarnations did, none of whom were the sidereal prince, who I now know to be great. My desire for the balance to be redressed and to find some justice, or at least revenge, has bound me irrevocably to this world.

Mother, aunts, I will avenge you.

To my next life. Forgive me.

-excerpted from the Book of Apostasy, volume CXVI.

Abbot Zonam tells me the body of this man, Krumatoa Amon, was never found, or at least identified beyond the bloody ruins, and so it is assumed he died. We were  able to find some art matching this account which names the battle “the Day of Blackened Hills.”

The abbot claims to have been there that day, and I have no reason to disbelieve him; he is a great and storied man, not to mention a powerful warrior, although he will often claim his days of clashing arms and legs are behind him. When I asked the abbot why he bade me seek this volume out, he was surprised to learn I had read the whole account: he says the lesson was in the first paragraph!

This man, Krumatoa Amon, was privileged to know of his own fate, but the Gods, being masters of fate, killed him despite this. Fate is the tool of the Gods, and nothing stands above them, not even this great and seemingly noble warrior. Perhaps it was also a parable against virtuous attachment, especially familial piety.

Some of what was said has lingered with me in the scribe’s hall, and in-between embellishments and calligraphy, I have read what little more there is to know: it is said that on the dawning of the Day of Blackened Hills, a host of acolytes had already gathered around Krumatoa Amon, some of whom were avowed apostates and others who admired his power and wished to become his disciples regardless of his faith. When the Gods answered his challenge, they set a host of Quarter knights in escort of Kirsnaverg, the dreadful Kakomos. The creature had no interest in honor, and smote the mountainside, the temple, and the man inside. Afterwards, the Quarter-knights set about the gathered disciples, and ran most down as they tried to flee. It is said that this mountain-slope is indelibly dyed red with blood.

The final reference to this man I found in the orders of a sodality of Krismoy, some ten years later. They were commanded by their Theobuls to find Krumatoa’s next life and end it.