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The Legendary Journeys Saga #8: Belt and Cattle
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Space Jesus



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#1
07-15-2021, 06:46 AM

8A: The Godmoot IX

Madness!

Madness!

Man-eating mares hungered for more. They hungered for the flesh of the Gods.

The gathered host sprung into action. There were hundreds upon the hill, yet still… there were casualties.

It was the panicked yelps from outside the palace that first alerted the moot to the threat. While the major Gods debated, the minor Gods - mostly Olympian but with a small contingent of others that had travelled with their respective pantheons - largely went about their day, mingling as they could with their counterparts from the forty-two corners of the world.

Eris was among them, having stayed close to the palace on this day, knowing that her name would come up during the course of the discussion. The occasional raised voice, or even a crack of thunder, kept her a breast of the quarrels that went on within the marbled pillars and walls of stone. She delighted in knowing the strife she had helped sow. That had been her nature since birth, and even today she was brought to near-orgasm at the thought that the mortal scribes and poets still debate her parentage. Two forms of her they believe to know. But she knew the truth.

She never saw how the horses got there, but their arrival signalled more jubilation for her. The madness they wrought!

Madness!

Until they came upon her. Even as they took their first bites of her flesh, the smile could not be removed from her face. It took their chomping teeth to remove it. Still, she felt the joy of madness in her heart. Then they removed that too. It was only as the ravenous mares lunged for her eyes - whose final vision was that of a white light bursting from the palace entrance - that she considered that perhaps strife wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

After all, it just led to her death.

~~~~~


Baldr led the fighting forces out of the palace. Gods of war joined with him. Directly flanking him were his kin. On his right, his brother, with his hammer of thunder and lightning drawn. On his left, Týr, who only needed his one arm to wage war. Behind them the cat-like Bast strides with a dagger drawn; Mixcoatl of the heavenly hunt draws a star-kissed hands; and portly Hachiman sets forth from the East. Though Athena stayed seated on her silver throne, Ares himself rose off the slice of human skin that covered his own brass seat and joined the battle, a signal of Olympus’s unity. Still, other warmongers, such as the one-eyed Raven of Asgard and the Moon of the Nile himself, stayed behind in their heated debate.

As the mares gnawed at the corpses of the minor Gods - Eris included - their appetite began to quieten. Baldr’s shining light triggered something else within them. Survival.

They bit and kicked, knocking even the mightiest of the Gods from their feet. Having been the first to make contact, Baldr bore the worst of the punishment. A frantic hoof from Denius the Terrible connects with his temple, sending his helmet flying. A second drops him to the ground. A third hoof, this time, stomped rather than kicked, cracks his skull and spills Asgardian blood atop Olympus.

A bolt of lightning shoots from Thor’s hammer, dropping the deadly mare. But it is Ares himself that gets the kill. The other mares fall quickly after. Only Lamtara utters even the slightest neigh of resistance.

But these mares can’t compete with their betters.

~~~~~

“Sun. Or moon. You can only choose one.
Which do you choose?”






8B: The Belt of Hippolyta


[Image: FDli7PP.jpg]



The mortal had stolen the mares, and left them on the mountain. There was no particular outcome that he sought. Rather, it was simply a message.

About control.

He made his way back down on foot, clambering over rocky ravines and down cavernous cliffs, oblivious or perhaps even uncaring about the possibility of the mountain’s residents seeking retribution. They never came, though. And he… he just set off on his own once again.

Controlling.

~~~~~


The winds took him once more to sea, and the waves took him once more to foreign lands. He had been at this long enough that the travel didn’t seem to bother him anymore. It’s like he could simply close his eyes, and suddenly he would be where he needed to be.

~~~~~


See?

No dock awaited him, and certainly no king.

He had amassed a crew to get him here, but he knew he had to leave them behind. And so he waded through the water, leaving the boat behind.

When he reached land, he shook his legs dry (or as much as possible), and pushed off towards the woods that towered beside the beach. There was a mystique that hung over these lands, and he knew what he was hunting for would be elusive. The people who lived here did their best to hide themselves from the interference of the outside world. Man’s inclinations often lean towards destruction.

He sees a sign that reads: ‘No man may enter’.

He enters.

The trees are vibrant with an evergreen life. Safe from outside influence, they’ve thrived. He ducks under low-hanging branches and steps over distorted roots, sometimes doing both at the same time. It’s hard to find his way, but that’s kind of the point. The easiest way to find something that doesn’t want to be found, is to not know where you were when you found it. Or so he thinks. There’s probably a lot less of life’s insight in that statement than he thinks, but on the other hand, that also lends itself to his cause. Impossibile logic. Possibly illogical.

For what it’s worth, it works.

He finds a sign of civilization. Something that doesn’t belong.


[Image: AYFeCV8.jpg]



Against the green and brown of nature, the blue of the phone booth is an eyesore. The man - forbidden as he is - knows that it’s out of place, and that’s what draws him to it. He carefully approaches, conscious of the possibility of traps (booby or otherwise) being laid for people just like him.

Men.

He surprises himself by making it to the phone booth unmolested. Knowing what must be done, he opens the door, and steps inside.

~~~~~


Where he needed to be.

Deathly silence greets him. Dozens of charmingly vicious eyes of all shades of colours, green, brown, and deep azure. And in their hands, sharpened spears pointed at his throat. Ready to penetrate. With silent, jeering jabs that bring their spiked tips just shy of his skin, they edge him forward and down a path.

The houses match the booth. Colourful, painted, timber facades with glass work beyond their age. There are no doors in sight, and from within the open archways of almost every building, fierce women add their eyes to the judgement procession. He is marched down the lane. At the end, a large, circular manor rises above the village, with a manicured garden the likes of which would not be seen for millenia still. The spear-wielding women usher him in through a small black gate, and towards the expansive villa.

~~~~~


“I’m so glad you came,” greets a tall, blonde Amazon. “Please, please, come in.”

The spears - and the hands that wield them - are left outside as the man steps into the drawing room. Three grey sofas coated in a synthetic fabric are arranged in a three-quarter square around a glass-topped black-straw coffee table. A stone fireplace rounds out the square, within which warm embers crackle and burn. Their comforting glow flickers around the room, casting shadows on white walls lined with thin console cabinets crammed full of books.

“Take a seat,” she says, gesturing to the seating arrangement. Dutifully he obliges, and she sits down across from him. A brief lull leaves him looking into her shining emerald eyes. The stories that they could tell.

~~~~~


As he sits on the couch across from her, she has a chance to look into his blue, washed out eyes. The stories that they could tell.

~~~~~


“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she smiles. “You’ve accomplished… a lot.”

“I guess,” he shrugs. He never really knows whether he should lean into his accomplishments, or if he should just let them speak for themselves. It’s a battle within which he frequently shifts from one side to the other.

“It’s okay, friend. Be comfortable with it. To be honest…” she pauses, “I’m actually impressed.”

“I appreciate that, I do,” he says. “But my fight is not yet over. I uh… I need…”

“I know what you need.” Her interruption surprises him. He came for something… personal. But if she knows what he’s here for, why is she smiling so?

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Look, I support your cause,” she says. “That’s why I…”

BANG!

“What was that?!” Alarmed, he snaps his head towards the entrance.

BANG!

“Get to the back of the room!” she shouts. He does as he is told, jumping over the back of his sofa and scrambling along the floor to hide underneath a table.

Completely visible.

Dumbass.

He sees the spears first, though he was sure he had left them outside. Or… they had left him inside.

Then he sees the faces. They were the same as those he saw when he first emerged inside the phone booth.

‘Wait… what the fuck is a “phone”?’ he thinks for the first time.

He has no time to finish the thought. Death points towards him in the shape of sharpened pikes.

“How dare you?” voices one of the spear-women.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, unsure of the accusation. He scuttles backwards but the spears follow.

“You dare aim to defile our queen?” she spits from beneath a frame of raven-hair.

“Defile?” his back arcs. Against a plastered wall, he pushes himself to his feet. “What are you talking about?”

~~~~~


“Stand down!” the queen shouts.

Nobody listens.

~~~~~


“You come into our domain and try to take her from us?” the shieldmaiden says.

“No!” he denies.

It matters not. The spear thrusts towards his throat. With deft step, he reacts. Ducking, he cracks the rod in half. Then he cracks the neck.

His attacker is dead.

And he remains.

“I… I didn’t mean to!” he pleads to the queen. Her eyes are wide with shock. With slow, depleted steps, she drags the tail of her sequined gown along The Beige-Coloured Steps.

“You killed her!” she says. “My… raven.”

“I said I didn’t mean to!” he pleads.

Further flourishes of spears threatened his throat.

~~~~~


He fights. He survives. It’s what he does.

~~~~~


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” desperately he begs. He hopes for interference that never comes.

Time and space rendered futile.

“We could have been… such a pair,” she speaks, her voice haunted by her thoughts,

“I never wanted that!” he replies.

"No, I… I…” Choking on the blood that now pools in her throat, she struggles to finish her sentence. "I would have helped you..."

"I didn't want any of this," he says.

But it was too late.

The queen was dead.

And to the victor goes the spoils.









8C: Thoughts and Prayers

He drops to his knee against a gravestone and sobs. Though the date scratched into its smooth facade has changed, he knows he's seen this stone before. Around his waist, a girdle of gold garishly gleamed in Apollo's glow.

"It was never meant to be this way," he tells the fallen soul. "It won't! I won't!"

Across dimensions and into dreams, with naught but a small pearl clutched in his hands, he swears to not give in. No matter how much that cancerous piece of him tries to take hold, he will resist it. He will not lose what he has left! He will not be controlled!

The universe swears back.

“Remember our deal.”

He wishes that he didn’t.





8D: The Ninth Labour

“The Belt of Hippolyta has been claimed!” the Messenger announces. The moot doesn’t pay him much mind, however. Their Godly war party has begun dragging their feet back into the palace.

“Is everyone okay?” the Highfather asks.

Their silence gives them away.





8E: Conviction

“There’s something that Iwe haven’t had a chance to really speak about, Atara. I know, I know! Hard to believe, right? After all, we’ve had such a tremendous back and forth, haven’t we? But this… this is a pretty big gaping hole that hasn’t been filled yet, so let’s just go ahead and plug it. To be honest, I was kind of surprised you never brought this up on your own. I figure, though, that since I gave ol’ Long Drew Silver (‘cause he’s never getting the gold) a few pointers last time, the least I could do is offer the same for you, eh, Need-A-Helping-Hand Atty? So here we go:

Betsy Granger.

I had cast my mind back to the chance that we got to bump uglies previously, but that… that wasn’t the last time that we were in the same room, was it?

Leap of Faith.

Put all the ‘were they-weren’t they’ about whether we were actually on the moon to the side. That would invariably lead to questions around whether or not Betsy’s life was ever truly in danger, but I believe what I believe.

You and your sister tried to kill her.

And me…? I was there. Dolly and I tried to stop it. Shit, even Bobby did too. For my part, I don’t think I did a particularly good job of it, but you know what I say by now. I’m not very good at the whole hero schtick. Best leave that to Ruby. At the end of the day, Betsy had to save herself, and all it led her to was another attempt on her life.

By you.

Oddly, I’m not here to get mad at you about it. Betsy’s a big girl, and I’m sure as fuck not her keeper. She got up and has lived to fight another day. Killer Atty couldn’t kill. You had to leave her to Bobby to try and pick up the pieces. Like I said, she’s a big girl and I guess I just expected James Raven and Shawn Warstein to have her back. Or any of Apex. Five people there and nobody showed up!

Gosh, there sure is a lot of that going around, isn’t there?

If Betsy needs a hand, mangled as it may be, she just needs to ask. The reason I’m bringing it up is that I’m still out here trying to figure out what the purpose of all that shit between the two of you was?

Atty… why didn’t you just ask?

Because you don’t need to ask, right? You’re a Goddess! Aphrodite Incarnate! You don’t ask; you take! You took your title back even while you tried to take your shot at me. But that’s all you’re taking. Your shot. But not what’s mine. You are not taking that. I think… I think by now you’re starting to understand that aren’t you? Insightful Atty.

Oh, what could have been!

Another-Day Atty.

Is it still true, after how all of this has played out? That your name sounds different coming out of my mouth? I wish I could listen from your end. To be Put-Down Atty. Then Buttered-Up Atty. Back-and-forth between the two, but all along… Dreamer Atty. Even more, I wish that you would have expanded on what you said. Instead, you flip-flopped like you’re Chris Page and went on to say that it all sounded superficial. Make-Up-Your-Mind Atty.

Well hey, I’m still here. Saying your name.

Just like you asked.

Kind of full circle, right?

Pity you’re not here to take advantage of it. Oh well, more of the same old shit it is then.

Heh… you know, if that were true, it’d actually make me a little like my predecessor and I… I’m not sure how that makes me feel. I’ve been playing off what few comments you did make about me, Atty, as if it were some kind of joke, but let’s call a spade a fucking spade. If you or I turn on the telly and find ourselves in front of a Chris Page monologue - becase nobody would willingly make that choice - we could be watching completely different ones and neither of us would even fucking notice. It truly is the same old shit with him, even when others point it out. Me… I don’t think I’m really there. I actually like to engage in a little to-and-fro and get the strength of my conviction tested. And you… honestly, you managed to pull that off even with barely opening your mouth. You made me test myself. Congrats. But…

I passed with flying fucking colours.

You can make me look at myself, but all I see is the inevitable outcome. My fight goes on.

Atty… you told Betsy that you only need to work half as hard to be just as good as the rest of us. But I think we’ve seen now how that’s not true, haven't we? Because this is Half-Assed Atty. And it’s not enough. Not for me. Because I don’t need to say that ‘My Minimal beats your Maximum’. There is no such thing as a minimum, when it comes to me.

I’m all or nothing.

‘Kill or be killed’ was your deal when it came to Bets’. My deal is ‘Eat or be eaten’.

I’ve made my choice.

And so have you.”






8F: The Godmoot X

“The Belt of Hippolyta has been claimed!” the Messenger announces. But that was old news.

Fittingly, the moot doesn’t pay him much mind, anyway. The Godly war party has begun dragging their feet back into the palace. Literally. Mixcoatl, the star-kissed archer of Mexico, stumbles across the sweeping floor, leaving a trail of blood behind him that billows from a footless stump at the end of his leg. He is supported by the broad shoulders of the Dove of Japan. Hachiman’s arm is wrapped around the warrior’s waist, and it grips tighter with each warbled hop.

“Is everyone okay?” the Highfather asks, perhaps stupidly as he eyes the savage injury.

Their silence gives them away.

“My son,” he says. commanding the attention of Ares the butcher as he clambers onto his brass throne once more, finding comfort in the flayed human flesh that keeps the seat warm. He rested his hands upon the arms of the chair, which were chiselled into the shape of human skulls, matching the decorative knobs emblazoning the sides and back of the seat. The God of War meets his father’s gaze. “What fate befell our guest?”

“The Mares of Diomedes were loosed upon us,” he replies through gritted, red-stained teeth. His mouth tasted of copper and fury.

“Have they been dealt with?” his father continues.

“Yes,” he replies simply.

“Good,” Zeus nods. “Let us resume the trial. The ninth task has been completed.”

“No!” shouts the Falcon of Egypt. Long had this trial taken already, and longer still would it last. He knew he had disrupted the way of things, but this time… “Where is the White Light of Asgard? Where is Baldr?”


Over the course of the debate, the Asgardian had steadily grown to support Horus in his quest for justice following the slaying of the Nile’s Sun. The solemn look upon the bowed, bearded faces of his warrior kin tells the Moon all he needs. Zeus, alert as ever to the changing whims of his guests, follows the moonglow eyes and sees it too.

“What happened?” he allows Horus to ask.

“He didn’t make it,” Ares curtly cuts in, pulling eyes away from where the Asgardian pair stand. “Taken, by the mares. Others too. Eris, for you.”

Upon the announcement of his at-times sister’s demise, Ares fixes upon his father’s pensive frame. Horus is beside himself. The passing of one of the Greeks helps keep his tirade from getting personal, but in his eyes, the circumstances of this assault on their existence is an unforgivable sin.

“We know who did this!” he shouts, making sure all the Gods are paying attention. “We know it was the very mortal whom we are here to pass judgement on. We saw it, each of us! There is no trial needed! We must act!”

A hundred murmurs are mumbled by divine lips. Some in agreement; some in dissent; and a vast number simply still struggle to come to terms with what has unfolded. They came here for a moot, as is their way. Some, for more than that: potent wine, a lavish feast, pleasures of the flesh. All promised by their same lips that now question. They’ve survived an attack, and some have now lost family. This is a vulnerability that the Gods haven’t felt in a long time.

“Will you not stand and fight with me?!” Horus continues, commanding the palace floor. But despite his behaviour that at times is to the contrary, this floor doesn’t belong to him.

The King stands.

“Go if you must!” he says, his head in the sky and his voice booming across the heavens. “I will not stop you. Mourn the fallen. Celebrate their life in a manner befitting of a God, as you would do if it were one of your own. For it was, no matter your family. But for those who have not yet made up their mind, I offer you this: my treasured peer of the Nile is correct. We know who loosed the mares upon our congregation, and the mortal should be punished accordingly. There is, however, another matter to be settled.”

“This has to be a jest!” the Falcon protests.

“You brought a grievous matter before us, my friend,” Zeus says, in an attempt to calm, “one that has not yet been resolved. We need to see this to the end and determine whether he is guilty of both crimes, or just the one.”

“No! We don’t! We need to put an end to this now! If we don’t, who knows what else he will do? Zeus…” On the final word, the resonance of the Moon’s voice drops. It grows sombre and weary. “...How many more have to die?”

“If we’re wrong, dear Horus,” says the Father of LIghtning from the top of his rainbow steps, “then the true scourge of your Sun would go unrevealed. If there is a foe we are not aware of, that would pose a much greater risk to us all.”

“You’re wrong,” the new Father of Egypt says. “And I’ll prove it.”

With a stamp of his ankh-tipped staff on the palace floor, Horus signals his intent for all of his pantheon. At the head of the procession, he leads them out of the palace. A few others follow, but for the most part, the rest of the Gods remain atop Olympus. The Highfather falls silently into his throne, his elbow resting on the black marble arm supporting his head with his hand.

“Hermes…” says Hera, taking over the court. The fleet-footed, nimble-tongued Messenger understands her perfectly.

“The next trial will begin!”

~~~~~

“No matter the choice, eventually the sun will set.
Will you push on?”






8G: The Cattle of Geryon


[Image: rFZqkJn.jpg]



He had fought beasts and captured monsters; diverted rivers and destroyed mountains. But today, he had met his match.

It wasn’t Apollo that beat down upon him. No, he was far from Greece once again, and the Olympic Light still sat on his golden throne, in heated debate. This desert was the realm of someone else. Something else.

“Remember our deal.”

The heat was brutal. He had walked through fire; stood in the middle of a supernova; and he had emerged unscathed. But day after day of sand-coated dunes, without as much as a prickly cactus to hide behind from the punishing rays, had led him to a state of near delirium. It felt as though the sun was out to get him.

Maybe it was.

He had long lost count of the number of bitterly cold nights that had followed the scorched and arid days by the time he had reached his tether.

“God damn you!” he screamed, without a hint of irony. Though he was weary with fatigue, he unhooked his bow from the strap across his back that held the protective pelt of the lion in his place. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, still drenched with the poison of the hydra. With shaky arms he slotted it into the arrow rest. He stared directly into the sun.

And he fired.

“GAAAAAHHHH!” he roars. It falls from the sky, pathetic and pitiful, landing with a whimper in the sand.

He drops to his knees as the sun clobbers him with another haymaker. Defeated save for hope.

Is it hope, then, that births a vision of twinkling water ahead of him? A mirage, surely. Even so, it’s hope that urges him to his hands and feet in a laborious scramble. His left hand burns and peels, matching his right. The hope swells him forward, and to his feet. He stumbles, but doesn’t fall. Plodding steps struggle through the sand. Forward he pushes.



Ever forward.




~~~~~


Water! Water at last! He falls into the oasis, nestled amongst the palms and reeds, and starfishes atop the surface. The sun continues it’s attack, but here in the water he easily bats it away. Splashing in the water, he almost forgets what he was doing. It’s calm here. Protected. Safe. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to stay for long.

Wedged within the lush, green foliage, he spies a large golden cup, and in an instant the memories the waters had been washing away power their way back into his mind. He wades his way towards it, and pulls himself out onto the thin strip of fertile land. He doesn’t bother drying himself off, that’ll happen all by itself.

Possessed by something other, he climbs into the golden cup, and in a solar flare, he’s suddenly transported from the desert and into the open ocean.

~~~~~


Of course he would be out to sea. Powered by hope and magic, the golden cup bobs its way over waves and washes up to shore.

“This must be it,” he says to nobody. The sun thanks him by ducking behind a cloud.

Dry as can be now - he said that would happen, he surveys his surhad roundings. From the shore, he can see a small island just off the coast, with rocks and dirt as red as Apollo’s last goodbye. On it, a herd of cattle with skin that matches the earth they graze upon.

In that direction he goes.

And all he sees is red.

~~~~~


The morbid growl halts him in his tracks. A massive wolf, formidable in its own right, made even more lethal by the second head upon its arched shoulders. One snaps its jaws in a maddening rage; the other hides behind a guise of calmness. But the man could see this as the treachery that it was. This was a grotesque thing. The opposite of an angel. It dares him to cross the strait and reach the island.

And all he sees is red.

All it takes is one tremendous blow, right between the necks, and the once mighty wolf was rendered obsolete. The herdsman followed after, a mastermind of ranching. He heard the commotion and tried to come to two-headed Morbthrus’s aid. One crack of the man’s club deals with the master rancher the same way.

All he sees is red.

Finally, the three-bodied giant himself enters the fray. He had charged the beast and the herdsman with the protection of his herd, but after their failings, he had no other choice but to defend them himself.

“Lucy…” he grumbled as he lumbered towards the man. His three bodies worked poorly together, a rebellious unknown merely wishing for his day. The man would feel bad about what was to come. But he had his crusade, and the giant had his grail.

With three bodies came three spears and three shields, making it hard for the man to get in close. He had to resort to other options. Ducking under a pointed thrust, he rolls along the sandy shore and - as if recharged by the glow from his sailcup - he artfully drew his bow. There would be no missing this day.

All he sees is red.

The giant’s blood spills upon the sand as the cursed arrow drills into his forehead. Lines of death striate down his face, and the giant falls to the side like a spoiled poppy.

Red.

~~~~~


The cattle were his! He ushered them from the island to the shore in the golden teacup, and now all he had to do was take them home. He would not travel via the desert this time, either. No, across fields of green and along the banks of bubbling streams. The end was in sight!





8H: The First Ending

[font=Courier]The tragedy of life is often not in our failure, but in our complacency.


~~~~~


He thought it was over, but then the fiend stole the cattle away in the dark of the night while the man was busy dreaming.

He had been sleeping on top of a hill which would one day become a great city. The fiend forced the cattle to walk backwards - no easy feat - to cover the tracks, and it wasn’t until the next morning when he slipped his bewitching pearl into its pouch once more and rose to depart, that the desperate bleats of the remaining cattle notified him of a cave entrance.

Beasts live in caves. Men slay beasts.

Corpses were nailed to the entrance, and small puffs of smoke swelled out of the entrance. The man stormed, headfirst into danger. He risked everything. A fire-breathing giant and spewed an inferno at the man.

But the man walked through fire.

He shoved his hand down the fiend’s blazing mouth, and strangled it to death.

It’s what he does.

Que será, será.


8I: The Tenth Labour

“The Cattle of Geryon have been claimed!” Hermes speaks again.

“This would have been the end…” the Highfather muses aloud as he thinks upon the trials of the mortal.

“But it’s not,” his wife replies.

Do you have a light?

[Image: 7qdASxF.jpg]
(Banner courtesy of Atara Themis)
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