Chapter 13-376: A Covenant with an Old God (2/2)
10. If another Power seeks to challenge Ughril, it is the Right of Mortals to choose to stand by Her and not heed those claims. This Covenant is between the mortals of this world and Ughril alone.
“Are these terms acceptable to the Mother of Ice?” I asked Her calmly.
“SUCH HUBRIS, MORTALS MAKING COVENANTS WITH GODS SO.” There was half-scorn, half-amusement in Her voice. “ONCE, WE WOULD HAVE DEMANDED OUR DUE FROM THEM!”
“Ah, but the fun thing about mortals recognizing Your Right is that they do not have to recognize Your rivals. Who then profits most, but gods and mortals who work together, rather than at odds?” I considered the grim and terrible, yet still fell beauty of this valley at the South Pole. “You may well grow mightier than You ever have in the past, simply by mortals recognizing what You are and that You have Rights and Obligations of Your own.
“I am aware that if something comes to challenge You and You defeat them, You can become stronger.” Her teeth bared in a ferocious display. “Likewise, if they are stronger, perhaps you might ask for help... for is that not what a Covenant implies?” I tapped Clavus down, and Her eyes naturally moved to the burning, horned skull of the Firelord that adorned it.
“YOU WILL NOT BE HERE LONG IF YOU SUCCEED,” She said pragmatically.
“Which is why I am training successors. Also, I should like to introduce you to the two Warlock Grandmasters of this Shrouded World.”
They unfolded right up out of the stone, disgorged by the Land. Sleipner rose up smoothly, and Legion and Shvaughn stepped off him.
The Old God eyed the two of them carefully... especially Legion. Both of them were in full natural forms; Shvaughn looked like a fire-haired diabolic Amazon, and Legion a half-dragon lilitu, complete with frill, two sets of ornate and deadly horns, two sets of draconic wings, and scales that hissed against the cold wind.
Both of them went to one knee. “Paying respects to the Coldlord of Antarctica, the Wisdom of Winter!” both of them said together, Voices ringing in the cold and thin air at the Foundation of the World.
“Hur hur hur!” Ughril huffed in delight. “SO MANY PACTS! SUCH WICKED PATRONS! SUCH SINISTER POWERS THEY HAVE GIVEN YOU! TRULY WARLOCKS WHO KNOW HOW TO PLAY THE GAME, AND DARE ANYTHING FOR POWER!” She chortled. “AND NOW YOU SEEK A PACT WITH UGHRIL?”
“We will,” they said in unison, and Legion went on in her Voice of multitudes. “When the Mother Land recognizes you, we would hope the Mother of Ice would recognize us as well.”
The Old Goddess chortled deeply again, reaching out long arms to set a long claw dripping liquid atmosphere on each of their brows, but harming neither of them. I’d also taken Shvaughn through the Ice and Fire Ceremonies yesterday.
She withdrew Her hands, and looked over at me again. “SUCCESSORS, YOU SAY. THESE TWO HAVE MUCH POTENTIAL IN THEM, HAH HAH HAH!” I saw her flick another glance at Legion as both Grandmasters rose. The Pacts would come soon, but not today.
“One final offer, Gatekeeper of Hyperborea. You are far too strong to benefit from the power of a Blessing of mine, but You may just wish to have a view into the world of mortals far beyond your realm.” I held out my hand again. “I can give You an eye upon the world, far beyond these lands... and who knows what might capture Your eyes there?”
Ughril stared at me again, looking for signs of malice or cunning, and seemed a bit disappointed when she found none. Her eyes flicked to that Covenant again, and then back to me, my Aura so different from both of the Warlocks standing there.
She held out her massive hand to me again, which naturally dwarfed me, her finger as long as my leg. My fire didn’t harm or react to her cold in the slightest as I took one finger, gently pulled Her hand up, and bent forward to kiss the base of her wrist.
The Blessing burned itself into existence, fire that could swirl and exist with cold without bias or conflict.
In a side room of the Markspace, a very old presence indeed, rivaled only by the age of Mr. Burble, looked out upon the mindscape of the Markspace. Ughril noted the presence of the shoggoth in astonishment, especially its sanity, and then Her eyes naturally fell upon the brightest lights here.
Yes, we were some very dangerous mortals indeed, and this collection of burgeoning souls was, on average, far stronger than She’d ever seen a collection of mortal souls in Her life, swirling with great and terribly Good purpose.
There was also a planetar, who right now was totally at the level of an Old God, and backed by a power even more ancient. In the eyes of the Mother of Ice, he was far more terrible and alien then a mere Old God would be.
Good was just not a thing among the Old Gods, and Heaven was just a terribly judgmental hypocritical force that had undeserved power over them.
There was a LOT of us. More humans that She had ever felt knew Her Name before, and acknowledged Her place and status. Even if they did not honor Her alone, just that recognition and respect arising from them was more Faith than She had felt in millennia, and possibly ever... even if it came from souls with so many too-bright, childish colors.
And there were still many, many millions more of us mortals out there, who could all learn the Name of Ughril, and recognize and respect Her Covenant.
Traveler to Allegiance: +Send out word and awareness. Ughril, the Mother of Ice, seeks Warlocks to help defend her Domain and establish Her Name. Ughril, the Guardian of the High Ice, seeks true Priests to once again establish Her Church within Her Domain. Ughril, the Gatekeeper of Hyperborea, seeks Templars to watch over the realm that is Her Ward. Ughril, the Wisdom of Winter, seeks Oracles to represent her in the Lands beyond her Domain, in the Greater World of Terra.+
Ughril watched my words ripple out across all those minds and their awarenesses. It would take a special sort of person to serve an Old God, but there was no doubt that among those millions there would be some... and they would know of others.
Her eyes especially came to rest on a nexus of people grown from a single point... a nexus in Hyperborea, who did not bear the brighter lights of gold and silver and rainbow oranges, but the grimmer and more pragmatic blues, greens, browns, and grays She was long familiar with.
And most intriguingly, some with some other dark and familiar colors under the Warlock Shvaughn, who blazed with an amethyst light more than fell and terrible enough for the Old Goddess to respect.
There was a knot of people, false undead, who found themselves looking at that Old Goddess, and remembered old tales that they, the Wrapped, had once been the Clerics of old and terrible Powers, and had excelled in that service. This, this ancient being of Green and Brown and Gray called out to their blood...
Maugh and her Clan of Wrapped, the Peat, suddenly had the idea that Ireland might not be where their destiny lay at all...