THE LAST RITUAL: Bane of Mithar

"Calling now upon you our fathers

be here once again we beseech you,

in spirit do stand before us as we are.

Manifest in smoke and heed our call.

By this your collective ash
mixed with blessed colander seed

and the purged intent of sage

come now and give your council 

grave and determined be true.

For our hearts have grown weak

from sorrow and plight in darkness,

share you fabled grace again!"

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 As many times before the candles blew out.  The smoke of the incense bowl rose up and began to glow as moonlight and churned like clouds.  A form took the shape as a female before those fearful priests.  Unlike before the voice was of many speaking as one, "I am Valinada.  Why have you conjured me forth like some summonsed spector for your bidding?"
   "We ask a boon of you, our most sacred Lady." They replied.
  "A boon?  Hear me well! Everything you wish to know may already be learned from your living experiences.  Seventy-seven times before have you disturbed our slumbering memories.
   "Cursed and be Warned!" She screamed with outrage.
   The Priest-King Amarzath stepped forward and boldly asked ignoring her tone, "Tell us truly, shall we as a people endure?"
   The smoke glowed and dimmed with each spoken word, "Heed my words and call us forth no more.  The plight you suffer is all but of your own making, and the wisdom of experience belongs to the living alone.  The Undying Lands are filled only with our memories; it is you of the here and now that have the gift of change.
   "Shattered and scattered shall be the urn of our remains.  Even the dwarven masters admonished you from worshiping us in this manner of folly.  Revere only The Most High Creator.
   "LOOK! Judgement now falls upon you oh King Amarzath for such deeds!"

   With that the smoke form dissipated as the candles became lit again by the incense's fumes returning.  Fear overcame those hooded priest, and their faces turned white.  I, Shallumath,  faithful senior scribe witnessed all these things from the corner in which I always sat to observe.
   Upon that chamber's door a pounding messenger gained entrance crying, "The siege of death comes against us all my lords!  Behold, for a mighty sand storm hastens to fall upon the city!"

   I, Shallumath sat huddled in my cloak upon my mat watching the priest scream in fear.  Moments following the messenger's warning the entirety of the city and our very chamber was engulfed in a frightening storm.  Sand swarmed all about us like biting fleas in the night.  From my forgotten seat I saw forms covered in shadows welding great blades.  The sound of the mighty wind, screaming priest begging for their lives and the crashing of pottery.
   The hours of blowing sand with a lion's roar went on for the entire day and night.  By next morning's daybreak the sand storm passed as a new sound of mornful wailing began. The falling tears of women and children for their slain fathers, husband and hero soldiers.
   Before me the Watcher's Urn lay in scattered shards and the floor itself a desert waste.  The headless bodies of the twelve priest bled out in the ruin, and I alone remained alive in the Tower of Varlendur, now the Bane of Mithar.


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The Lesson. . . .