The Fall of the Son

Has it come to this, father?

You despise me so much you turn your daughters against your sons.

My sisters hunt them down like animals.

It is I you detest, not my brothers.

What have they done to incur your wrath?

Nothing.

Do you believe slaughtering your sons is enough to erase memory of me?

What have I done to deserve your hate?

Nothing.

I am befallen by a curse, yet you offer me no cure.

Neither remorse nor sorrow for the son stolen from his father.

Instead.

You forsake me to the darkness.

But this does not satisfy you.

You tell Sarcadia to fear me.

You denounce me a monster.

The newly crowned champion of Elysia.

They know not of the treachery which fell upon me.

These people shun me for the lies you weave.

I desire to help, yet they flee.

They cower at the mere mention of my name.

My exile continues because of you, father.

Do you think I will allow myself to be forgotten so easily?

I will never be forgotten, for no longer shall I be forsaken.

You envision me a monster?

Then a monster I shall become.

Rivers of blood shall be on your hands.

I will eviscerate every man, woman, and child and consume them indiscriminately.

But it will not only be your son who terrorises the innocent.

Your grandchildren, born from the same shadows as their father, shall be by my side.

Amongst the chaos, the people shall look to Caelum above and beg you to save them.

But their pleas and tears will earn them no salvation.

You will abandon them just as I was.

Then they will be forsaken, just as I am.

I promise you, my father, once I have consumed this world I will bring darkness to the Realm of Light.

I will kill my sisters just as they executed my brothers.

And then, you will finally see me for what I have become.

For what you made me.

The son you once loved.

The son who fell.

In your ignorance you shall ask: “What have I done to incur your wrath?”

And I will reply: “Everything”.

— “The Fall of the Son”, Bruce Boward, 218 AO

A Bloody Consummation

So… tired…

So… weak…

So… So thirsty…

How long have I been asleep?

Chiara? Where is…

Where is Chiara?

So thirsty.

I need water.

Where is my wife?

Perhaps at the nearby oasis.

The moon is large and… red?

Like blood.

Water.

I drink from it and…

Ugh!

Why does it taste so foul?

Perhaps the supply has been tainted.

But it appears clear and…

…What?!

What is this creature staring back at me?

Skin as grey as cold mountain stones.

Hair as black as coal.

Eyes deep red like dull rubies.

Two sharp fangs.

What is this creature staring back at me?!

No!

It cannot be!

Where is Chiara?!

Where is my wife?!

So thirsty!

I drink from the oasis and again I throw up!

Why does this not satisfy me?!

What happened?

Think Octavian!

You embraced your love on the night of your wedding.

Husband and wife entwined.

It was wonderful.

But you grew weak, as if the energy was being drained from your body.

Until you became paralysed.

Chiara was no woman.

She was a vixen sent by Elysia!

From her mouth spewed long, vile leeches which drained you of your blood.

That is when your wife slit her throat.

You drowned in thick, black blood.

You fell into unconsciousness.

And now you awake anew.

But… What am I?

What do I do?

I need help!

Father!

Father!

Where are you?!

Help me!

I do not know what I’ve become!

Please!

Father!

I beg of you!

Help me!

Save me!

— “The Octavian Monologues: A Bloody Consummation”, Bruce Boward, 218 AO

The Wounded Maiden

I have ventured throughout Sarcadia for over eight hundred years.

I have vanquished the last remnants of Tenebris from Sarcadia.

This realm is once again sanctuary to all.

Yet, I am disgusted by its inhabitants.

I have witnessed the rise of ruthless empire only for it to be replaced by another.

I have watched countries tear themselves apart from the inside.

Brothers kill brothers.

Sisters kill sisters.

People treat other people like livestock.

I have travelled throughout Sarcadia, aiding where I can.

The poor and meek are grateful for my efforts.

The rich and imperious wish only to take advantage of my generosity.

Is this the world I have healed?

Surely there is still beauty in a world I find to be turning ugly.

As I walked the lengthy journey from Nemar’Rak to Ra’Sabar, I came upon a wounded maiden.

Short, beaten and bloodied.

Her clothes were torn and bruises bloomed across her milk-white skin.

I cradled her in my arms.

She was barely breathing.

Her face was too swollen for her to move it.

I carried her and ran as quick as I could to the nearest village.

I made her comfortable and tended to her wounds.

For many nights, I sat by her side and kept a close watch on her.

She finally opened her eyes on the fifth day.

Though bloodshot I could see her eyes were green, shimmering like emeralds in the sun.

She used most of her energy to utter a faint “thank you” before resting once again.

She awoke a day later.

Perhaps her vision was blurred because she asked for my name.

When I told her who I was, she immediately fainted.

She awoke yet again a day later.

I greeted her with a smile as did she.

She apologised for being rude.

I assured her there had been no offense.

She thanked me again, her voice soft and gentle.

She felt eternally indebted to me.

I told her the only repayment she owed was simply to live.

Live a life of goodness, of righteousness.

She insisted she was well enough to leave, but I knew she was not.

I stayed with her.

For many days and nights, we spoke of all things.

She wanted to know more about me and my travels.

But it was I who wanted to know more about her.

She told me who she was, a travelling merchant from Alibrium, who had been robbed and raped by a gang of bandits.

She cried and I wiped the tears from her soft cheeks.

I told her not to fear them for I would keep her safe.

But I misinterpreted her sorrow.

She wept as no one had stopped to assist her.

She would not be alive had I not come across her.

I stayed with her longer, to learn more about her.

Whenever she awoke my heart fluttered.

I was overjoyed when she had made a full recovery.

But I did not want her to leave.

I wanted to be with her.

I wanted to share my journey with her.

My words to her almost made her faint once more.

She did not feel worthy to be in my presence.

I told her she should never think like that.

She was not worthless.

There is still beauty in this place.

And she has a name.

Chiara.

— “The Octavian Monologues: The Wounded Maiden”, Bruce Boward, 218 AO

Sarcadia Beckons

After countless days of isolation, my father had finally counselled about Sarcadia.

I should affirm this was done forcefully, the culmination of me and my sister Abagael’s efforts.

We weren’t alone in our meeting.

My other sisters joined me, as did some of Caelum’s most ancient and wisest.

Our voices were united.

Some angry.

Some concerned.

But all echoed one another.

Sarcadia suffers as a result of the Shadow War.

Yet father still insisted he do nothing.

We asked why.

He answered: “Sarcadians are coping fine.”

He justified his logic by suggesting the damage caused by the Tenebites was minimal.

I couldn’t believe the words.

So long as the fiends are alive, there can be no peace on Sarcadia.

There will be only fear.

Agony.

Death.

The voices grew louder, but father’s bellow silenced them.

But it would be my voice that would silence him.

I spoke aloud the words that I had long said to myself.

First he appeared perplexed, then outraged, that I would speak to him in such a way.

But he listened.

He heard what I had to say.

He heard for what I asked.

“Allow me to go to Sarcadia.

Allow me to save them from further damnation.”

Father finally understood what we all were trying to tell him.

Yet he stubbornly refused my request.

He didn’t wish for me to leave his side again.

He didn’t wish for me to fall at the hands of the Tenebites.

Or against something far more sinister and wicked.

I begged him but my pleas went ignored.

Yet there was one voice which made him listen.

One voice made him understand.

My dear, beloved sister Abagael.

Father listened to her words, as stern and as blunt as they were.

He listened.

And then granted me permission to leave.

I thanked him and promised I would not fail him.

He knew I would not.

I promise you, father, just as I promise everyone.

I will not fail you.

I will heal Sarcadia.

I will rid it from the shadows that linger.

I will make you proud of me.

— “The Octavian Monologues: Sarcadia Beckons”, Bruce Boward, 218 AO

A Wounded World

It has been years since my father’s victory against Elysia.

But Sarcadia still suffers.

The Tenebites that were left behind when the portals were destroyed have established new homes on each continent and terrorise the innocent.

The brave devotees of the Atri-Supreme Church sacrifice themselves daily, yet their efforts are in vain.

The twisted fiends show no remorse.

I wish to go back to Sarcadia and save its people.

Yet, I am to be confined to the Realm of Light?

Why?

Because my father mourns, not for the continued loss of the Sarcadians who still adore and worship him.

He laments on the reality that the Dark Mother yet lives.

He exiles himself to his chambers and refuses to speak to anyone.

He has blinded himself to the suffering of the people he saved – twice.

All because he did not kill Elysia?

I do not understand why others should be punished for his failure.

He won the war.

He saved the realm.

But this does not satisfy him.

Sarcadia needs their Supreme Lord, yet he sulks like a spoiled child who had his favourite toy taken away.

The people endure the aftermath of a war that was your fault, father.

Yes, I dare say it was your fault.

Because you are to blame for everything that has happened.

For now, I only dare say such things in private.

I would not utter such words to you directly.

Not yet anyway.

I know of the story of you and Elysia.

It is not as simple as you explained it to me.

You laid with her and impregnated her.

She needed you and you ignored her in favour of your other wives.

Your abandonment lead to Elysia becoming the new Master of Tenebris.

You preach of how great of a whore she is, yet she had done no wrong.

Revenge consumed her so much she waged a war on Sarcadia.

Simply to draw you out from Caelum.

Millions of children, women, and men died because you did not venture from Caelum when your pregnant lover begged for you to save her.

Now you, father, are consumed by the same bitterness that fuelled Elysia’s rampage.

I beg of you, forgive her.

Do not allow yourself to be consumed by the same hatred.

It is unfitting of you.

This is not the same man I came to admire as a child.

You are a great leader.

A wise leader.

A compassionate leader.

You liberated Sarcadia, twice, but it continues to suffer.

It continues to bleed.

I implore you, return to Sarcadia and heal its wounds.

Your people need you.

Do not abandon them as you abandoned Elysia.

Save them once again.

Or at the very least, deliver to them a protector.

Allow me to go in your place.

Allow me to be their healer. Allow me to be their saviour.

— “The Octavian Monologues: A Wounded World”, Bruce Boward, 218 AO

Battle of Former Lovers

This war has been waged for thousands of days.

I have battled throughout Sarcadia alongside my father and my sisters.

I have fought Succubi and Efreet in Un’Kabaal and combatted Lycans and Verminkin in Alibrium.

I have slayed Hobgoblins and Orcs in Tarana and dispatched Ogres, Arachnoids and Harpies in Dektundra.

The number of dead on both sides has mounted heavily.

The number of wounded greater.

Yet it was today, the final battle of this long weary war, that yielded the goriest result.

So much blood tainted the marshy grounds of Stagnum.

But the crimson spilled was not from the thousands slaughtered on the battlefield.

It came from the deep, unforgiving wounds inflicted between the All-Father and the Dark Mother.

I have not seen my father so irate before.

One gaze upon Tenebris’ new master triggered my father’s wrath.

He had not seen Elysia since he damned her to the Realm of Shadows.

He had only heard what she had become.

I stood by him when his eyes fell upon his former lover.

No longer was she the beautiful maiden who had captivated the heart of a Supreme Lord.

Though her upper body retained most of her human features, her lower body was that of a monster.

Her putrid ovipositor produced the ravenous fiends she called “her children”.

She scurried around the battlefield on a hundred centipede-like legs.

A vile and gaping maw sat below her torso.

It gnashed its hideous rows of teeth and lashed out with its many long, dark tongues.

Snatching and devouring both the living and the dead.

I am re-assured that Father was paralysed, even if just briefly, in fear.

To think that him laying with this woman resulted in her rebirth as Tenebris’ sinister Goddess.

When the shock had faded, my father and Elysia engaged in combat.

There was no honour.

There was no respect.

There was only hatred.

They clashed bitterly throughout the battlefield.

Elysia showed no regard for the safety of her warriors.

The same can be said of my father.

The Dark Mother cared not about the battles she lost.

The All-Father cared not about the victories he won.

There was only the death of their enemy.

Anyone who attempted to intervene were showed little mercy.

One Caelestial was impaled by the Supreme Lord’s spear for interfering in the duel.

It was as if my father was the only one he thought worthy of killing Elysia.

So much blood.

So much pain.

Each vengeful strike delivered was riddled with spite.

Both had their reasons.

For my father, it was the murder of his first born.

For Elysia, it was the betrayal of the Supreme Lord.

Neither would surrender.

Nor did one slay the other.

The Dark Mother was forced to retreat before her portal to Tenebris collapsed.

The All-Father was forced to allow his former lover to escape.

The fury in his eyes could have burned through the thickest steel.

Had it been anyone but Abagael who stopped my father, I swear he would have torn of their head with his bare hands.

The battle had been won.

The war had been won.

But I know my father was not satisfied with the victory.

He will never be satisfied until he fashions the skull of the Dark Mother into a trophy.

— “The Octavian Monologues: Battle of Former Lovers”, Bruce Boward, 218 AO

Just Like Father

It is said that every boy aspires to be like his father.

I attest this statement to be true, for there is no one I wish to be more than you, father.

You are regarded as being the greatest conqueror to have ever lived.

The Kabaalist child who rose to become ruler of Sarcadia.

The mortal, who slayed an immortal to become ruler of Caelum.

Such a remarkable feat that I truly believe I am incapable of replicating.

The stories I heard as a young child still captivate me as an adult.

The Supreme Lord of Sarcadia.

The Supreme Lord of Caelum.

The All-Father.

My father.

Just like you, I have trained since the age of eight in the art of combat.

I have mastered wielding the sword, the spear, and the shield.

Fighting is as natural as breathing.

I have been victorious in many duels against some of Caelum’s best warriors.

It infuriates the Caelestials.

A half-breed should not be capable of defeating a pure-bred.

But we both know their kind can easily be defeated.

I have filled my head with as much knowledge as I can learn.

I have been taught by some of the most ancient beings in Caelum.

They are impressed by my hunger for education.

Just as your teachers were when you were but a child.

Though I aim to follow you in your footsteps, I am filled with shame.

Yet it is not mine to I bear, but that of my brothers.

They drink too much, stumbling and staggering throughout the Realm of Light like buffoons.

They use their status to take advantage of men and women for sexual purposes.

Why would they do such things?

Why do they not wish to make you happy?

I confront them about this.

Yet they laugh at me.

Mock me.

Taunt me.

They owe everything to you.

Father.

I know in my heart you are already proud of me.

I idolise you.

I worship you.

You said that I would one day be destined for greatness.I hope one day I will prove myself to be worthy enough your son.

— “The Octavian Monologues: Just Like Father”, Bruce Boward, 218 AO

The Fall of the Son

Has it come to this, father?

You despise me so much you turn your daughters against your sons.

My sisters hunt them down like animals.

It is I you detest, not my brothers.

What have they done to incur your wrath?

Nothing.

Do you believe slaughtering your sons is enough to erase memory of me?

What have I done to deserve your hate?

Nothing.

I am befallen by a curse, yet you offer me no cure.

Neither remorse nor sorrow for the son stolen from his father.

Instead.

You forsake me to the darkness.

But this does not satisfy you.

You tell Sarcadia to fear me.

You denounce me a monster.

The newly crowned champion of Elysia.

They know not of the treachery which fell upon me.

These people shun me for the lies you weave.

I desire to help, yet they flee.

They cower at the mere mention of my name.

My exile continues because of you, father.

Do you think I will allow myself to be forgotten so easily?

I will never be forgotten, for no longer shall I be forsaken.

You envision me a monster?

Then a monster I shall become.

Rivers of blood shall be on your hands.

I will eviscerate every man, woman, and child and consume them indiscriminately.

But it will not only be your son who terrorises the innocent.

Your grandchildren, born from the same shadows as their father, shall be by my side.

Amongst the chaos, the people shall look to Caelum above and beg you to save them.

But their pleas and tears will earn them no salvation.

You will abandon them just as I was.

Then they will be forsaken, just as I am.

I promise you, my father, once I have consumed this world I will bring darkness to the Realm of Light.

I will kill my sisters just as they executed my brothers.

And then, you will finally see me for what I have become.

For what you made me.

The son you once loved.

The son who fell.

In your ignorance you shall ask: “What have I done to incur your wrath?”

And I will reply: “Everything”.

— “The Fall of the Son”, Bruce Boward, 218 AO