Scion: Legends of the Wild West - Divine Labor #1: Seeds of Myth

[Ouroboros]

Divine Labors are an extra credit affair. From time to time I will post up a thread with a particular "labor" (like Hercules labors). These are entirely optional, if you don't want to do it don't, I won't weep for lost opportunity. Those who do complete the labor, to my satisfaction, will get the stated reward. There is neither a due date nor a statute of limitations, if it takes you 3 months to complete a labor you'll get the same benefit that the person who did it within the week it went up gets.

Some rewards will be long term, extra dots of birthrights, bonuses to minor stats, etc. Some will be one time game play bonuses. The reward will suit the amount of effort I expect the labor to take.

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Labor #1: Seeds of Myth

Every figure of myth starts somewhere, comes from somewhere and some circumstances. Write a short fiction that in some way relates to the start of your character's personal myth. This can be the story of your visitation, or perhaps how your divine parent seduced (or was seduced by) your mortal parent, or even how one of your birthrights came to be created. Anything goes so long as it pertains to the start of your own personal myth AND so long as its not something that you already wrote for your character submission.

The reward for this Labor will be 1 dot of Birthright, assigned by me, as either and upgrade or an entirely new birthright.

Awarded:

Cherry

Liv

[Cherry]

Zacatecas, Mexico

Late Summer, 1870

The force of the bullet sent the Sheriff’s body sliding through several feet of dirt into the center of Zacatecas’ main street as the local mission’s bell sounded dolefully in the distance, its mournful peels acting as suiting counterpoint to the thunderbolt-like rumble of the killer’s rifle as the sound rolled down the street and out into the surrounding hills.

Alger Grant lowered his rifle and took the opportunity to hack up a wad of spittle, and then he ambled over to where the alguacil lay sprawled in the dust, and prodded the dead man’s belly with one booted foot. Satisfied with the lack of response, he slung the Henry rifle over one bony shoulder and turned to head back into La Cantina de Rosa where he planned on continuing the ‘drunk and disorderly behavior’ that had started this little showdown. Behind him, the mestizo peasants slowly came out from whatever cover they’d been hiding behind and tried to pretend that nothing had happened. They’d just seen the only law in Zacatecas gunned down in the street by some crazy gringo, but then the Sheriff had been a violent and corrupt man who ruled the town through fear. So what if ‘violent and corrupt’ had just been exchanged for ‘violent and insane’? Either way, the best course of action would be to keep their heads down and stay out of the criollos’ way.

Alger Grant did not so much as turn around as he passed through the swinging doors and back into the cantina’s dark interior, so he never saw the ragged figure whose silhouette was just resolving itself from behind the curtain of summer heat as she came half marching and half stumbling in from the high desert, covered in dust and streaks of dried blood and looking, by all appearances, to be just this side of dead. She, on the other hand, and despite being a quarter of a mile away, saw her quarry quite clearly as he vanished into the darkness within the cantina. Her pace picked up and she began moving with renewed purpose, knowing that – one way or another – the end of her quest was almost within her grasp, and her business with Alger Grant would finally come to a close.

Mad Alger Grant: Union soldier and widowed father of six children (and in that order too). A legend in his own time; some said he was the greatest soldier who’d ever lived, others that he was possessed by a demon; some claimed he was the son of Ares, and others declared he must be Ares himself in human form, while those more steeped in Native American mythology than in Classical said he was Haokah himself. But the one thing everyone could agree on was that he was crazy, or as they said out past the Western Frontier, ‘plum loco’. And the ragged figure staggering in from out of the surrounding sierras had been tasked with killing him.

60 miles outside of Socorro, New Mexico

Spring, 1870

“So he’s crazy, then?”, Cherry asked her mother.

“Oh yes”, her mother answered solemnly.

The goddess Durga had come to Cherry as she was crossing through the New Mexican desert. She had appeared astride the largest lion that Cherry had ever seen or heard of, upon the top of which she now stood, tall and proud and blazing as brightly as the noon sun that was shining down on them from the sky overhead, while the crescent moon gleamed iridescently upon her forehead. Hair as black as the abyss fell in long, lush, well-formed curls that served as a frame for the perfection that was her face, from which three brilliant eyes gazed out at the World around her. From her shoulders sprang twenty arms, ten on each side. In ten of her twenty hands Durga held the powers of ten Gods, and in the other ten she held the weapons of ten Gods. Her clothing was the color of blood, and upon her head, neck, wrists, and ankles were gold and jewels taken from sacred Mount Meru itself, given to her as gifts by ten Gods.

Cherry could not help but notice that while an impressive number of Gods had showered Durga with gifts, it did not seem that any Goddesses had ever done so. Cherry figured she could guess why.

This was the true form of Durga, whose name meant ‘Invincible’, the Goddess whose epithets numbered one hundred and eight. She who was called Bahulaprema, ‘Loved by All’, at the same time that she was named Abhavya, ‘the Improper Woman’; who was given the title Sursundari, ‘the Most Beautiful’, yet spoken of with fear as Bhadrakaali, ‘the Fierce form of Kali’, and as Karaali, ‘the Violent One’; she who was Praudha, ‘the One Who is Old’, and also Ekekanya, ‘the Girl Child’. This was the One named Parameshvari, ‘the Ultimate Goddess’, and she was the only Devas who carried the epithet Sarvadaanavaghaatini, which meant ‘One Who Possesses the Power to Destroy all Demons’.

And she was Cherry’s mother. There were many days that Cherry could hardly believe, and often doubted, that she, an orphan turned ‘soiled dove’, was the daughter of any Goddess, let alone the daughter of Durga herself. Knowing that she was truly her mother’s daughter filled Cherry with more pride than she could easily express. But that did not mean that she would simply accept her mother’s words at face value, or blindly follow her every order like a yearling cub, and this was well, because Durga would have been disappointed in her daughter if she had.

“If he’s truly mad”, Cherry pressed, “then why was he giv’n the vajrayudha?”

The Goddess waved three of her hands in a careless gesture and said, “So that you could take it from him, my daughter. I had to give it to someone, after all, and he seemed the best choice.”

Cherry tried to keep the feelings out of her voice as she asked, “You gave a weapon of the Gods to a madman, just so that you could test my worthiness to wield it?”

“Oh, not for that reason only, child”, answered Durga with a beatific and serene smile on her face, “He was also meant to use it.”

“That he’s done”, said Cherry, thinking of the stories she’d heard of the bloody trail of violence and murder that Alger Grant had left in his wake after the War had ended and he’d suddenly found himself without a legal outlet for his violent nature. “I reckon he’s used it plenty.”

85 miles outside of Zacatecas, Mexico

Early Summer, 1870

Cherry lay on her back amidst a cloud of dust kicked up by her fall and struggled to breathe around the sucking wound in her chest. She'd been shot before, but she didn't recall it hurting quite this much. Then again, the rifles doing the shooting hadn't been fashioned from a divine thunderbolt, either.

Dimly, it occurred to her that the man who'd shot her was still around somewhere, and that she might want to start doing something about that besides wheezing in agony. Cherry gritted her teeth and fought back gasps of pain as she rolled onto her side and started looking for the revolver she'd been holding in her hand a moment ago. It was lying in the dirt beside her, less than four feet away, but for all the time it took her to drag herself within arm's reach of it and to get her blood-slick fingers wrapped around its grip, it might as well have been twenty.

Cherry had just gotten her fingers wrapped around the weapon and was trying to summon the strength to lift the thing when a booted foot slammed down – hard – on her hand. She squeezed her eyes and her lips shut and managed to stifle everything but an “Mmph!!!”, that escaped from between her lips before she could stop it. She guessed that’d just broken three of her fingers, but she’d have to check before she could be sure.

From somewhere in the clouds above her a voice drawled out, “Z’thet a Colt Druh-Goon ya gawt there?”

Alger Grant bent at the waist and leaned down from the currently unfathomable height of, oh, probably around six and a half feet and snatched Cherry’s revolver from out of her mangled hand.

“Why, I h’aint seen wunna these since the war”, Alger remarked to the two murderer-slash-rapists that he called travelling companions these days as he examined her weapon. They'd come alongside Alger so they could leer at the uppity young filly who thought she could out-shoot the crazy old War vet.

Cherry noticed that the way mad Alger Grant said the word ‘war’ made it sound like it had two syllables in it. Her foggy mind tried to figure out where that other syllable might be coming from, but couldn’t and eventually gave up.

“Now whut”, continued Alger with a condescending tone and a smile to match, “wuz a perty li’l thing like y’all doin’ pointin’ sumthin like this here pistol at ol’ Alger Grant?”

Cherry glared back at him and tried to answer. “Was planni-“, but then she had to stop for a moment as she hacked up a whole mess of stuff that, she felt certain, a body wasn’t ever supposed to have to hack up. Once she was finished she gritted her teeth and tried again; “Was plannin’ on shootin’ ya withid, ya sunuvabitch.”

“Well, idden thet hie-ronnik, then?” Alger asked mockingly as he grinned down at Cherry and pointed her own pistol at her, causing his two companions to chuckle wickedly as they watched with anticipation. He thumbed back the hammer on her Dragoon as his grin grew hard, and then he shot her in the chest, right over the heart.

Cherry’s eyes bulged for an instant as her body bounced violently off of the stones and dirt underneath it, and then she was still.

Alger Grant eyed the bloody, but still-beautiful, and now apparently unbreathing young woman underneath him, and then raised her weapon so he could look at it and smirked. “Ah c’n hardly belleev she tried ta take on ol’ Alger with nuthin’ butta pistola. S’like’n ant tryin’ ta fight wi’ God, is wuht ittiz…”

He tossed Cherry's still-smoking revolver onto her blood-soaked chest and walked over to pick up the bound and weeping adolescent girl that he and his amigos'd picked up recently for purposes unmentionable. Then he went looking for his horse. Alger figured he'd take the young lady's horse as well while he was at it. He figured she wouldn't be needing it anymore.

Zacatecas, Mexico

Late Summer, 1870

Thinking that being abandoned in the middle of the Mexican wilderness, with no horse and two bullets in one's chest was enough to get rid of a Scion of some tired old God was a mistake, but an understandable one. Thinking that being abandoned in the middle of the Mexican wilderness, with no horse and two bullets in one's chest was enough to get rid of a Scion of Durga was just plain foolish. But leaving her in the middle of the Mexican wilderness, with no horse and two bullets in her chest, and her loaded revolver?

That was a mistake that 'ol' Alger' was about to pay for. Cherry could see why they said he was mad.

The young Scion looked a mess. She was covered in the dust and dirt of the road, but more than that, she was still caked with the dark stains of her own blood.

It'd taken her most of a day after Grant had shot her to pull herself together enough so that she could actually stand up, let alone begin the long walk to the nearest settlement. It'd been nearly three days before the fingers of her mangled hand were strong enough to grip the Dragoon again, and it'd been more than five days of straight walking without a single stop before she'd reached Zacatecas. Finding that Alger Grant was still there was more than she could have hoped for.

She stopped just outside La Cantina de Rosa and, as if remembering something she'd forgotten about until just now, she popped the cylinder from her Dragoon and checked it for cartridges. Four bullets left. That'd have to be enough. Cherry clicked the cylinder back into place and lifted her eyes to the entrance of the cantina.

Without any preamble whatsoever, what looked to be the walking corpse of a young woman passed through the cantina's swinging doors and into the dark, close, alcohol-and-bile-permeated air that swirled through the cramped room within. She took a moment to stare out from behind the strands of her caked and matted hair with blood-shot eyes, her gaze as unfeeling and brittle as sun-bleached bones. Alger Grant and his two amigos were sitting at the bar, running up a tab they had no intention of ever paying, and the mad Union soldier was also groping drunkenly, and inappropriately, at the ten year old girl that he'd kidnapped who reminded him so much of his youngest daughter, dead these many years.

Cherry raised the Dragoon in her hand and pointed it at Alger Grant's back. She thumbed back the hammer and croaked out one word: "hie-ronnik".

Then she shot 'im. Twice.

The two outlaws on either side of Alger's collapsing corpse whirled around in alarm, trying to pull their weapons free of their holsters as the adolescent girl standing in the middle of it all screamed and put her hands to her face. Cherry shot one of the men dead before he even had his gun all the way out of the holster, but the other man got a shot off at her. It tagged her solidly in the shoulder, causing her to stumble backwards a step, but her gun hand never lowered, and an instant later she pulled the trigger a fourth time and ended a third life in the process.

As the three men finished their awful fall to the ground, Cherry glanced down at her shoulder and shook out the ruin that was her overcoat. A ruined metal slug fell from its folds and clattered to the cantina's dirt floor. A little bit of fresh blood soaked into the cloth where she'd been shot, but Cherry ignored it and stepped over to Alger Grant's ruined corpse.

She squatted stiffly when she reached him and, very deliberately, reached out and grasped the Henry rifle clutched in one of his hands. "This is mine", she rasped scornfully at the dead man and pried the rifle loose from his unfeeling grip.

Holding her prize, Cherry stood up and walked around the adolescent girl, who was still weeping in near-hysteria, to the far end of the bar where there weren't any dead men sprawled on the ground. Apparently finding a spot to her liking, she leaned over it and, ignoring the wide-eyed bartender, snatched an unopened bottle of Coffin Varnish from behind the counter. Cherry popped it open, brought it to her lips, and drank down fully half the bottle in one go before setting it back on the counter again. Her thirst slaked somewhat, Cherry wiped at her lips with one dirty sleeve and looked around herself for the first time. Her tired golden eyes took in the tiny, cramped expanse of the cantina, and finally came around to meet those of the bartender.

"Y'all got an inn 'round these parts?", Cherry asked him, and then took another swig of whiskey while she waited for him to find his tongue.

[z-Olivia Jennings]

[Warning, this post has material of a mature nature. You have been warned.]

There were two babies due tonight; the master and the mistress were expecting their first. The midwife was sure that there were two children coming. Inside, family and friends of the lucky couple were gathered, offering support. The women were upstairs, tending to Angela, while the men sat with Robert in the parlor.

The white folk weren’t the only ones waiting. The slaves had remained near the house, wishing to hear the happy news of the new arrival or arrivals. Lenny, the foreman, had said that Ronald would permit a day of rest and celebration at the birth of his first child. With the rumors of twins, there was sure to be a big celebration, and the slaves were eager for a generous bounty of food and drink. The magnitude of that celebration would depend on the gender of the children, naturally, so everyone hoped for a boy.

Into the miasma of eager anticipation, a dark form entered. The crowd watching and waiting for the news felt a chill pass over it. The slaves were a religious folk; they went to church just as the master wanted, then went home and prayed to their own gods. This chill was a bad omen, and the women tucked their shawls tighter and whispered a prayer to Erzulie, the matron of babies and mothers. But even Erzulie could not stop the skeletal form that slipped through the crowd, whistling a funeral dirge as it mounted the steps to the house. Lenny didn’t see it and was confused when the slaves began to cry. They knew Saturday’s Lord, and they knew that he brought death to the house.

The Baron strolled into the sitting room, where the men sat up in anxious attendance, waiting with Ronald. The god of death paced around them like a shark, listening to their hushed conversations. Ronald was pale, almost ghost-white, his hands clasped tightly as he struggled to maintain his dignity. Each noise that drifted down from upstairs made the young husband flinch. Samedi paused next to the potential father, with his fleshless skull somehow casting a bemused expression at the man’s anxiety. “Don’ worra, papa,” he said mirthlessly. “Ah’ll save ya sometin’.”

Ronald shuddered as a chill passed over him, and somehow, he grew paler. Above them, Angela screamed and Ronald recoiled. “Sounds like time,” Samedi murmured, but there was no haste in his steps as he strolled up the massive central staircase.

He wandered into the bedroom, where the men were forbidden to go and the women huddled around the bed. On it, a white woman labored, her belly distended. Samedi looked past the sweat and twisted features, nodding at the white man’s taste in women. But she wasn’t his focus tonight; he had other interests.

Red stained the white sheets between the woman’s splayed legs. The Baron was untroubled by the stench and sounds in the room; this was the process of death. It was messy and ugly, full of blood and pain. Not, the divine man considered, unlike life itself. He leaned over the bed, looking at her like a man assessing a puzzle to solve. The black house slaves drew back in fear as they realized who he was. Humming to himself, he touched the woman’s belly; the watching slaves began to weep as they understood. Angela was blind to their pain; her own became wretched and she screamed. “Oh God!” she cursed, harsh words for the gentle-bred woman. A moment later, she was weeping openly with pain. “Something’s wrong,” she moaned.

“Nothin’ wrong, ma petite,” the Baron murmured, stepping back. He leaned against the wall, waiting. “Cycle o’ life ‘n def.”

Angela didn’t hear him. An hour later, the first child was born, healthy and squalling. The second child was longer in coming; it was dawn before another rush of blood and screaming brought the second child. Unlike the first, this boy was born still and silent.

The Baron walked out of the house with a tiny bundle, humming to himself as the house began to mourn.

-=-Two Months Later -=-

That might have been their last encounter with the Baron, until the end of their lives, of course. But Fate had other thoughts in mind for them. Threads were twisted, and Robert found himself convincing his wife to attend a masquerade party. “It’ll be good fo’ ya, suga plum,” he said to her, rubbing her bare shoulder as she peered at her in the mirror. “We’ll get Mimi to watch William.”

“I don’t know, Robert,” she murmured, her beautiful blue eyes meeting his in the silvered reflection. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

He moved in front of her and knelt next to her. “You’ll have a wonderful time. I promise. And I insist, as your husband.”

She did go at his urging, laced into a lovely yellow dress with snow-white edging. It was the first time she’d been out of the house since Webster’s death, a night which still weighed heavily on her. William’s continued health was wonderful and a balm to her grieving heart, but she felt as if she’d let the other boy down somehow.

She didn’t really have much fun for the first couple of hours. It was the same old gossip and parties as before, but it didn’t seem as important as before. Soon, she found herself outside, watching the stars sparkle and wishing she were home with her son. The chill air of the Southern winter night didn’t bother her, not with all these layers of clothing she wore.

The scrape of a shoe behind her caught her attention, and Angela turned, the feathers on her mask bouncing in and out of her vision. A tall figure in a dark coat with a skull’s head mask bowed to her. As a sudden chill settled over her, he said, “Goo’ even’, missus.”

He was clearly uneducated and Angela sniffed a little. She wasn’t sure why he was talking to her

-=-One Year Later-=-

The Baron walked through the slave quarters, humming to himself. Tonight, even the slaves didn’t see him. When he came for one of theirs, he didn’t always show himself. But they felt him. He saw them pull away from his chill, shivering as he passed them over. He was the touch of the grave, the cold of the dead and they knew their lord.

Most people were gathered up at the big house, waiting on the mister and missus’ newest babe. But in one small house, a woman lay in the throes of childbirth. She had given birth before, four times, and she bore her pain better than a younger woman might have. The Baron winked at her as he knelt next to her laboring form. “Ah’m sorra fo’ da pain yer about ta endure. But mah chile needs you.” He place a hand on her belly, taking the tiny life within her.

Rising, he walked to the plantation house again, his stride even and steady. Yet he was excited, eager to see if he had a son or daughter. He hoped for a son, but a daughter would be good, too. He laughed to himself: De lord o’ deth excited about life. It be a strange world.

The slaves saw him as he revealed himself to them, and they parted ways, giving him room to pass through the crowd. There was fear on their faces and respect in their posture. The Baron passed through them, smiling his bare-skulled grin. He passed into the house, finding the mood to be very different. Ronald was nowhere to be seen; there were no men in attendance, either. Only quiet, scurrying women moved through the house, their mood somber.

The Baron smiled as he mounted the stairs, looking forward to seeing the pretty white girl again. She’d been a sweet treat at that party, but tonight was all about business – family business. Tonight, she was bringing forth his babe, even if she prayed otherwise.

At the doorway to the room, he was assaulted with the same sounds and smells from a year ago. Angela strained on the bed, her voice coming in taut grunts and groans. The Baron leaned against a wall, out of the way, waiting for his moment. It was coming; he could feel it. Birth was a kind of death; the end of one journey and the start of another. And if the mother had any say about it, his child’s journey would be very short indeed.

The Baron had considered killing her this night, but the day might come that the girl would want to know her mother. Her death would be for petty reasons; besides, he might get another chance to toss up her skirts if he let her live.

The moment came; the Baron beamed proudly at the dark-skinned babe that was lifted into the air. A thin reedy cry filled the air, and the mother lifted her head, fear and hope clear on her face. When she saw the beautiful tone of her child’s skin, Angela let out a tortured cry and began to sob. “No, no,” she wept, balling her fist against her mouth. Suddenly she screamed, “Take it away! Kill it! Get rid of that thing!”

There was a sudden tension in the room. The slaves all looked nervous; this was the kind of white-folks business one sought to avoid. They were angry at her, though; one of the slaves dared to glare at her, and the Baron chose that moment to step forward. He knew that the woman wouldn’t recognize him, not unless he allowed it. “Ah’ll take it,” he said smoothly, stepping forward with open hands.

The house-slave holding the child started to pull away from him, but then she saw him. He nodded to her, and her face became confused. If he was going to take the child, he’d just take it. He wouldn’t appear like this and physically take it. She had no choice in any matter; she passed the child to him.

The Baron turned his back so that Angela wouldn’t see the pride on his face as he beamed down at her. It was a daughter, but still perfect and beautiful. Samedi grinned at her as he carried her out of the house. She still gave off that reedy cry, but he slipped his finger in her mouth to quiet her. She was only placated for a moment, but it was long enough to stroll past Lenny and into the slave’s quarters. He moved through the shadows, whistling his funeral dirge for her; the sound quieted her as she curled a tiny hand around one of his.

A soft sobbing filled the night, and he walked toward it without hesitation. He had caused this suffering, but he was about to relieve it. A man crouched outside his hut and Samedi stopped before him. “Rise yerself up. I have work for you and yours.”

Confused, Jonas Jennings stumbled after him, following Samedi into the small hut. Four boys huddled in the loft that was their sleeping space, unsure how to comfort their grieving mother. The baby hadn’t been real to them, not in any substantial way. “I have my chile here,” Samedi said. “My baby girl, born in the big house tonigh’.”

Jonas swallowed hard, taking another look at the crying baby. “Wha’ do you want o’ us, sir?”

“I know you lost a chile,” the Baron said. “I wants you to take mine in yours place. Keep her n’ raise her.”

“Let me see her,” the crying woman said softly, before her husband could reply. Samedi knelt and put the girl in her arms. The mother stared at the child and said, “O’ course, we will, sir,” she whispered, curling her arms around the child. “Jonas, let’s name her after my aunt, Olivia.”

Jonas looked at his wife, at the happy expression on her face, and nodded. “Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s call her Liv.”

[Ouroboros]

Both of these tales are deemed worthy. At some point during this story I will either provide you a new birthright or upgrade a current one.