Stories Of Zoltah

Jeio

Looking back on my existence, I have garnered a fair amount of regrets throughout the centuries; moments that I could have prevented evil but kept quiet, and others when I may have unknowingly abated it. It is true that none of us know all things, but even the simplest of moments present us with an opportunity to rise up and defend the weak. When Pandora, heart-broken and distraught, stored away her hatred, anger and all that is vile that fateful day, I am ashamed to say that I and the other sentries, looked on as it happened. Never before had we seen such a technique – one that can rid oneself of the emotions that oftentimes turn poisonous and affect the mind. To us, it was yet another day in our watch over Zoltah, but little did we know that frightful events were soon to come.

In a teary haze, the young Olympian extracted the essence of her anger followed by the substance of her despair, and sealed it with the bitter-sweet ale of her tears. Indeed, at the time none of us knew, but we were witnessing the creation of the first plague, brought about by an unlikely concoction. It is only with the benefit of hindsight that I realize now, I should have followed my instincts and descended to the ground. If I had, perhaps the first plague would never have been created. If I had, then maybe I could have spoken Pandora out of her path, or we could have released her vile emotions before they decayed into something far more sinister. But instead, we watched while she shut her chest and wrapping it in swaddling clothes, pretended as though it were a new born baby, before making her way out of Crete and heading off to the isle of Delos. As she crossed the lake and clambered up the mountain, the same pounding intuition that had haunted me earlier, gripped me once more – urging me, warning me. And yet upon my tower I remained.

It was only at the next day of Ragnarok later that year, that Heimdall, our Elder, informed us of what the contents in the chest were eventually to become. Rather than speak up and suggest that we retrieve the chest before an unwitting Olympian happened upon and opened it, I failed to stand and kept silent instead. Never in all the eons, could I have predicted that Azrin, with all his plotting and planning in the shadows, would have been willing to risk not only his own life – but that of his family and kinsmen. As perhaps the others can attest, when we watched him toil - gathering maps, artefacts and travelling from Valhalla across Asgard under disguise, none of us were able to deduce his intentions. Sentries after all, are not able to read minds. After he discovered the prime secta and came to the knowledge of the fountain of consciousness and the Potion of Eelth, I was finally able to find my voice and raised my concerns with the others; for in the wrong hands, the secrets contained in the manuscript could only wrought danger and destruction as we had never before witnessed. To my surprise, they dismissed me and my concerns, claiming that I care too much for the celestials. And yet, had that not been our calling since the beginning? Their words I noticed, grew colder each Ragnarok, as one by one, they no longer seemed vested in the wellbeing of Zoltah.

My suspicions were confirmed when meeting with Azrin, Heimdall himself took back the bifrost – an artefact only he was charged with possessing. They appeared to be in agreement, the terms of which, only they knew, but what is certain is this... Owing to their actions, a war fiercer than some of the most horrendous battles we witnessed throughout Zoltah's history brewed over the horizon – engulfing all the inhabitants under a deadly cloud with no cure in sight.