Towers of Lhaethos

There, far away, beyond the lush planes of Amhor'naeth, and cold lakes of Nard'iraen, a path runs. Narrow and dangerous, it swirls around the dreaded mountains of perpetual darkness, stopping just once, at the crossroads, to divide itself.

From there, it changes colour, and the lighter part runs toward the temples of Elaturot, the goddesses realm, and the darker one flows to the golden halls of Grth'mingur, where the lords of human minds dwell.

Forgotten are the priestesses of Elaturot, for easily forgotten are the virtues in the face of darkness, and mist shrouds their abode, filling the corridors and vistas of once brightly lit halls.

Shimmering and solemn, glide the priestesses to and fro, leaving the offerings, chanting prayers to the goddesses no-one remembers. Glad in white, are the priestesses of Irari, the light bringer. Myriads of crystals adorn their mantles, thick veils cascade to their toes from the elaborate, crescent shaped headdresses. Their faces are unknown to men, as is the face of their mistress, for no-one cares for the light in the presence of gold.

Forever young and lightfooted are the priestesses of Ilhabosta, bearer of hope, for no-one can catch hope once it spreads its wings.

Also clad in white are the priestesses of Ndaru, the lady of life. Their headdresses are so white it almost blinds, and their garments are simple, but light shines in their eyes, for they know the mystery of the being, and no man can take the knowledge from them, although many have tried.

Red are the dresses of those, who worship the goddesses of vitality and new life: Ske-os, the lady of birth, and her sisters, Isothat, the mother of mothers, and Otha, the one who sacrifices herself.

There are three more goddesses worshipped by the priestesses of Elaturot, and these are called the Faceless Three, for they are mystery and forever will be: Olale, lady of forgiveness, Dabo, the lady of fate and Yithabote, the Resolver.

Their priestesses are simply dressed, and their garments flow as the dreams, full of shadows. Their hair runs down freely, and they wear but a single veil, decorated with pale gold, to symbolize truth that shines even in the dark of the human mind.

Day and night they pray, and never stop, for in their hands lies the hope of the world, and their prayers keep the hearts beating.

Few people remember Elaturot with its slender towers and whitewashed walls. Few can reach the temple, for only the fair of heart can venture into the unknown to attain wisdom.

Dark are the towers of Grth'mingur, the abode of those who love power more than anything in the world. Loud are their voices, bright are their gazes, but cold are their hearts, and their minds are full of spite. They care not for the outcast, they despise the kind, favouring the ambitious, and human minds are easily swayed by promises they make, but never keep.

The priests worship these lords, and all they care about is outer beauty. Their garments are made of the best silks, their faces are arrogant and when their meals are not served on golden platters, they throw the food away.

Dark are their minds, and their hearts are rotten, and their lords use it to their advantage.

The high lords are always at war with each other, although they are all brothers. Handsome their faces might seem, but this beauty is simply an illusion.

Hard and cold as a stone is Rardrth, Lord of tyranny. Clad in armour at all times, he is the most hated lord of all. When he gets his way, he kills in joy, when he does not, his wrath is deadly. Many have died because of his insatiable hunger of power.

His brother, Imordrt, seeks to supplant him at all times, for he is the master of jealousy. Bent and crooked is his spine, and his face is gaunt. As a snake he slithers through the minds of human race, dripping his poison wherever he goes. His priests are of the same kind, and they rejoice when people allow themselves to be blinded by jealousy.

Iroth, Lord of deceit, loves lies most of all. Redhaired are sly, he is a shapeshifter and a trickster, stopping at nothing to attain the glory. Cowardly he is, yet hailed as a hero, for his tales are tall, and his words carefully chosen. He loves the guise of a handsome rogue, yet underneath he's a corpse, rotting away.

Bloody is the gaze of L'akar, the warmonger. He rejoices on the battlefield and his desire for conflict is unquenchable like the thirst in the desert. He is tall and muscular, and his sword is always ablaze. Sweat drips from his dark hair, and scars decorate his body - but he never seems to notice them. His shield is chipped and battered, and he wears no armour for he is not a noble warrior, but a mercenary fuelled by rage.

His priests spend their days on the training ground, trying to kill each other, and some succeed, only to discover their immortality the very next day.

Laurgr, Lord of blood, his twin, prefers the tortures to battles. Deep in his cavernous halls he rejoices in bleeding his priests, inventing tortures that would hurt and break them, but never kill - for he needs them alive in the days to come. He rarely leaves his chambers, and his face, they say, is that of a madman.

Tulrgon, Lord of greed, is a gatherer, a taker, the one who loves the best and hates to share. He is so vast, that the largest room would not be enough for him, and wherever people wish to be rich and powerful, there he is. Gold is his only love, and for it he would kill his own mother.

Khaugon, the Lord of self indulgence and lust, is worshipped by the priests who prefer sensual to spiritual. He is younger than his brothers, but beneath his beauty decadence lies. He is the one who would stop at nothing to get what he wants, and much like his older brother, would storm and rage if his wishes are not met.

He loves to be worshipped, and his crown reflects that for to himself, he is the sun, divine and unparalleled, and anyone who contests that, must die.

Day by day he parties with his entourage, and to please him, his priests procure anything from jewels to young children, so he would be happy.

D'rcael, the Lord of the Abyss, is often called the Lord of bones, for his is the shade of the crypt, the coldness of gravestones. He rules death, and he is not of the merciful kind. The death he brings is vile, cruel and violent, and he is the master of the putrid afterlife.

His face is a skull, his eyes are cold and bright, and no-one can escape him, except for those who follow the priestesses of Elaturot.

Cunning is D'rcael, and so are his priests, always standing at the ready to please their master. He despises his brothers, yet for one of them he sometimes makes an exception, for he revels in cruelty too.

The last Lord worshipped by the priests of Grth'mingur, is Belrdr, Lord of illusions. They worship him but they are never certain of it as he always cheats. His realm is that of make believe, and his ways are misty. He usually appears cloaked and no-one has ever seen his true face, although some say, he is either maimed or faceless. He wears masks since he was born, and even his brothers dread him.

These are the lords of human minds, these are the poisoners of life. Visible they are, and loud, and their priests work day and night to make them greater.

Woe to the one who follows them, for no glory awaits them at the end. Forgotten they would be, and hated for centuries to come.

Forgotten are the sad priestesses of Elaturot, and narrow is the path of virtue. Long is the way to freedom of mind, but not foolish is the desire to break free.

Come,follow the road To the white towers of Elaturot, for therein lies the truth.