The Lord of the Rose

There are many tales that speak of the Sorrower as a god much concerned with the affairs of the world. This may be an accurate depiction of the god; it makes perfect sense that one so dependent upon the sorrow of the world would take a personal stake in ensuring that it his work is done correctly.

In the lands now known as Vornavis, there lived once a wealthy baron who styled himself the Lord of the Rose. The name of his line is unimportant, but he was known to those dwelling in his fiefdom as the Eminent Edon. It was his preference to sit in mastery over all those gifted with less than he, and to make them call him by names with more worth than any of his deeds. The reputation his deeds had gained him was an ill one: word had long since spread to the winds of sinister acts done by Edon or committed in his name. Experimentation with methods of pain on servants and slaves of the house were the darkest of these.

It would be a lie to say that these rumors were without a core of truth. Edon was obsessed with the idea of causing others agony, almost as much as he was with the concept of his own importance.

His consort had once been a woman of great beauty, from lands where all people were pale of hair and eye. It had been years since that beauty had been seen, for his practices had shrouded it in scars and indelible marks. The Eminent Edon’s attentions were fickle, and he liked less the marks of his pleasure than the taking of it. Even less did he like how she would curse him, and promise that some day his pain would be repaid. He did not like the thought of receiving pain, only giving it.

The so-called Lord of the Rose had long since grown disgusted with how she appeared and spoke to him. Indeed, he forgot her face, or that she had ever been beautiful in the first place.

After a time of keeping her in a set of rooms so far from his that they would never meet through chance, the Eminent Edon grew tired of the meager amount it took to support her. He cast her off, and banished her from his lands. All this was done without a single word between the two.

For a time, he preyed on servants, but they proved not to be so hardy as his consort. Many perished in his clumsy brushstrokes of pain’s artwork. Others spread the word of his carelessness among their fellows. The people of the Rose Lord’s fiefdom slowly began to flee for places in which they could be safe and at peace.

Years passed, and the fiefdom of the Eminent Edon became a place inhabited by nothing but the wind. The lord was still wealthy, and his home was still grand. Travelers would wander through his lands, as travelers do, and occasionally the fairness of his villa would draw them as the sun draws the blossoming bud. Each soul unfortunate enough to partake of his good will either perished under his efforts at agony or spread more rumors of his wickedness.

By his seventieth year, the Lord of the Rose felt very much alone. No creature had passed through his keep for two decades. For this reason, his spirits were much brightened on the morning of his seventieth birthing day. He was admiring the glory of his land, which was still fair without any servants to tend it. A small path wound up the hill that led to his villa. There, he saw nine feminine forms, clad in the crimson of bright spring apples.

They came to the entry of his keep, and he was much pleased. All were fine of form, though their features were wrapped in silk the same hue as that which draped their bodies.

Said they, “We are priestesses of the Paingiver, and far from our monastery. We have walked for days and are weary from our path. Would you allow us to rest in your hall, good lord?”

He grew more pleased at the prospect of this, and with his spirits emboldened by their seeming need, he said, “If you are women who worship the Paingiver, then welcome to his keep, for I am the Eminent Edon, Lord of the Rose.”

Amongst themselves, they tittered. One, who seemed to be their leader, stepped forward and said, “Eminence, we worship the Great Mularos.”

Edon laughed, saying, “What does Mularos have that I do not?”

Said she, in response, “We shall see.”

Immediately making up his mind, the Lord of the Rose demanded, “You shall teach me everything there is to know about Mularos. I will not have it said that anyone understand pain better than I.”

Neither he nor they required more coaxing. In a span of moments, all were in his chambers, and though all the women remained clad in their alluring silks, he began to instruct them in what he knew of pain.

They began to tease him with the prospect of bedsport, which he was always fond of after his practicing. He leapt toward one, and something happened that had never happened before with any of his subjects. She slapped him, hard, in the face.

Suddenly outraged, and with all prospects of pleasure save that which comes from retribution banished from his mind, Edon lunged for her again… and felt a whip coiled about his neck, tight so as to choke his breath and sting his skin, but not keeping him from that which was needed to live.

This continued for a span of time. Perhaps only hours passed, but they were stretched into the length of years by his first brush with true agony. When finally the priestesses of Mularos were done, they let him fall to the floor. He was quivering, like a winter-dried leaf blown by too stiff a wind.

Nearly too weak to speak, he asked, “Why?”

One priestess, with dark and braided hair, stepped forward and said, “For years, you were given the impulse toward the Master’s work. Instead of embracing it in its fullness, you expended your talent on clumsy attempts solely for your own pleasure. You cast those you could have given to Him away.”

He felt something fail within his core as again he asked, “Why?”

Another priestess, with hair as red as copper, stepped forward and said, “You are alone, and a single being alone can do little to serve Mularos. Your pride offends him, and he wishes for you to be of one bit of use worth your arrogance. Once he might have tolerated this, but the pain you offer him is but a trickle where once it was a stream.”

The world’s colors began to fade, but he mustered the break to ask, “Why?”

The first priestess, who had addressed him as “Eminence” earlier, stepped forward. She unbound her silks, and all the others followed suit. She alone was pale of hair and eye, but all were scarred and made hideous by their marrings.

She answered, “Why? Because Mularos rewards those who serve Him. In the years of our consorting, I served Him well each time I endured you. After you cast me away, I served Him a thousand times more. You asked to be taught all that Mularos has to offer. I suggest we get started.”

She drew her whip, for it was her namesake under the power of the Pained God, and began to instruct the Eminent Edon in what pain really meant. That night, he learned one of the favorite lessons of the Sorrower: dying is harder than it seems.

See more of the Lesser Scrolls.