Of Dragon Riders and Shadows

Interlude

"It doesn't matter what story we're telling, we're telling the story of family."

-         Erica Lorraine Scheidt

Ω

There are patron gods and saints for almost anything – that is a truth as old as the world, as real as the sun and the moon in the sky.

Gods, saints, icons, idols. Some for love, some for suffering, some for solace. Some of perseverance, some of justice, some of death and war and sickness. Just as they live in the hearts that believe in them, they live in the sky or beneath the ground, existing to fulfill their purposes.

In a palace of onyx and ebony, in a spirit realm with ties to our world, resides one of the most powerful elder gods to ever exist. There are statues frozen in pain along the corridors, and grotesques adorn the exterior of the palace that almost no-one ever sees. On a throne as solid and intricately carved as its occupant sits Phantom, god of the Wastelands.

Long black hair painstakingly braided in the style of the warriors who model themselves after him, blazing ruby eyes that hold no mercy or empathy, and a sheathed sword that can cut through souls – such is the appearance of Phantom, god of the Wastelands, patron of the Rogues. As the one they pray to concerning matters of war and assassination, his appearance is as fitting as his mandate.

All alone in a home built on lies and lives, he waits until the bloodthirsty or his Rogues call upon him. He is the one who blesses those that wish harm on others, who influences the weak and guides the powerful, and who takes care of the dirty work his brethren find too repulsive.

There are patron gods and saints for almost anything – including the dark side of human nature.

Someone has to do it.

So it is, and so it has been, for untold millennia.

So it is, until one fateful prayer.

Ω

Phantom is lounging on his throne, busying himself by polishing his treasured knives.

The visit from Laverne, patron goddess of the warrior-healers, has left him bitter and angry. 'Tis never a good thing, when he gets like this, so he sets tasks for himself. Distractions to centre him, so he does not lose that carefully cultivated control. He is needed, after all, and he cannot afford to incapacitate himself. That, more than anything, is what keeps him going. He is needed, after all.

Just as he sheathes the last knife in his worn leather boot, a sudden burst of pain explodes from his chest. Phantom does not gasp, or double over, even as the pain spreads to his every limb. The pain is as familiar as his sword and his mandate. He is needed, and he has never shirked his duty.

The main altar is in a room adjoining the throne room, a vast chamber with a dais of bone and metal and stone. While most of the gods he knows use their altars for offerings, Phantom has also always used his as a conduit for prayers. There are many kinds of prayers; some deliberate, some conniving and accompanied by rich sacrifices, and some that are instinctive.

Those he prefers the most, for they are sincere and visceral the way most of his adherents are not. This time, however, is different – this he knows as soon as he steps into the room. There is no rare offering or sacrifice on the altar, nor words echoing with conviction and hate and bloodthirstiness. No. There is none of that. Only the desperate plea... of a child?

Phantom knows children, children exploited by war and horrible circumstances, or even nature. This little girl and her prayer is anything but them.