HenryTG

📢 MAZUUL THE THIRSTLESS - COMING NEXT TUESDAY 🐍 The scorching sun baked the sands of Eiden-Merk into a furnace—the most sparsely inhabited region in the world. The people of Teya claimed its only residents were desert rats. And one such rat had just emerged from the dunes, shuffling slowly toward the square of Aeon-lin. Ashir, a local native living hand to mouth, eyed the newcomer with suspicion. He had no love for outsiders. The man looked utterly ordinary, draped in a long, loose tunic, his head wrapped in a scarf against sun and sand. Only his wind-battered, sun-darkened face remained visible, marked by a scar across his nose. “Misery and ruin—that’s the fate we endure, my friends!” he thundered the moment he found his stage. “Parched throats and groaning bellies. I can hear them even from here! You are all ventriloquists, my dear, wretched brethren. Truthspeakers! A choir singing of the torment of existence!” Already, he’d seized the attention of half the square, drawing curious gazes and murmurs of agreement. “Come closer, beloved, I don’t bite,” he smiled warmly. “My throat is dry, my voice frail,” he added as the crowd edged forward. “Closer. Closer.” “Yet this is no fault of yours!” he continued. “You are hardworking folk, and labor builds character, adding to your virtue. But the soil here takes more than it gives. They say Eiden-Merk is a land forgotten by God. But nothing could be further from the truth! This is a trial, good people! Only the pure of heart suffer in this world. And they shall be rewarded—with a paradise awaiting them! But the rich? The powerful with their full bellies and rolls of fat?” He clenched his fist. “When the earth swallows them, it will be the end of them for good. These godless tyrants will never enter paradise—they are forever damned, believe me, my comrades. I do not speak these words in vain.” He paused, heightening the tension for his audience, who hung on his every word. “God speaks to me. And now, He speaks to you—right now! Through me, for He cares for you. Oh, how He pities you. And for that, He loves you. Moder is the one true God. Anyone who says otherwise is a vile liar and a sinner!” The nodding dwindled, and a wave of discontent rippled through the crowd. “Who is this charlatan?!” someone shouted. Ashir, like the others a follower of Sable, felt anger rising in his chest. With clenched teeth, he pushed his way through the crowd and pointed at the speaker. “I’ve heard of him—wanders around, spewing nonsense wherever he can. They call him the False Prophet!” “How could I be false, when your hearts know my words are true?” He drew breath to continue, but he never got the chance—for a legendary Eidenspit struck his forehead—in truth, a stone, for locals valued their saliva too highly to waste. “Get out of here, loudmouth!” came the threats and insults. “May Mazuul devour you on your way!” The prophet, blood trickling down his brow, knew it was time to vanish. He pressed a hand to his wound and slipped into the alleys, leaving the mob to argue. But Ashir wasn’t among them. He stalked after the prophet, seething. “Who does he think he is? Storming in here and preaching to us? You picked the wrong city,” he spat. “I’ll make sure you remember that.” But the prophet moved faster than expected. Ashir lost sight of him and had to ask directions, tracking him to the city’s edge. Beyond lay only desert—and footprints in the sand. Staring at them, he hesitated. “He’ll pay for this hassle. No one travels without coin—and he’ll hand his over.” Heartened by the thought, he marched on. After thirty brisk minutes, there was still no sign of the man—just an endless line of foot-shaped pits in the sand. Doubt gnawed at Ashir again, but he refused to quit after coming this far. Then, without warning, the sandstorm struck. It ambushed him like a bandit from the brush. The wind battered him so violently he could barely stay on his feet, and visibility dropped to just a few meters. The footprints vanished—and with them, any chance of returning. Disoriented and terrified, he cursed the whole escapade. He knew how long these storms could last—and he had no supplies. “This was supposed to be quick!” he wailed. “Why me? Why always me, the poorest wretch with no luck to his name?!” Then, in the whirling void, at the edge of visibility, he glimpsed a figure—appearing and dissolving like smoke from a dying fire. “Come closer, friend! Together, we’ll weather this,” called a familiar voice. The prophet! Ashir’s heart leaped with relief. Finding another human being in this situation felt like a blessing. His earlier malice was forgotten. Terrified that the man might disappear again, he shortened the distance between them with three quick strides—and froze. To his utter surprise, he did not find himself facing the same plain, tunic-wearing man. He looked up—drawn like a magnet to two hypnotic, deep yellow eyes. Beneath them, a forked tongue flickered like a candle flame in the wind. A serpent of absurd proportions, whose embrace not even a house would resist. Mazuul!