Once upon a time, in a land far, far away lived what a great many would consider a simple people. With peasants and lords, castles and kingdoms - but most importantly, there were dragons.
There were great dragons who ruled over huge kingdoms with claws of iron and ceramite and demanded enormous tithes of gold and a great many lives to satiate them.
The reigning dragon of the Ultramar region took great pleasure in his organisation of the people and great hordes gained from over 500 cities, and the Great Drake of Nocturne boasted his huge fiery lakes that he would bathe in.
And then there was the Pale One.
Rarely seen, and far more often overlooked.
Unlike his brethren he did not seek to claim and conquer more than he had, not anymore in any case, and he resided set aside from mortals as best he could.
His kingdom of Barabarus did not boast much in comparison, where much of the agriculture was born of wasteland and vast swathes of land was barren, poisoned and unusable. Salt of the Earth.
But though he was not often seen to terrorise the masses with great and mighty feats to keep the populous in its rightful place they feared him still. They feared the blight and disease he would bring with his wrath, and the way on rare days his wings would cast shadows riddles with holes that camouflaged his approach, like clouds with the way sunlight filtered through.
His residence was a fearful one too, not a great palace filled with attendants to serve and maintain him, but a ruinous place, a castle that towered over in toppling stone, held together by overgrown vines that took the place of mortar and bound the earth.
Towers with wrought and twisted iron reinforced by thick bramble, a whole wing that was crumbling into the cracked waste beside it and terrible roars and bellows that made the land tremble for miles.
The type of sounds and crashing that made travellers run in fear when they looked up and saw no thunderclouds in sight and haunted the nightmares of every man, woman and child who worried for when it would be their turn next.
Because he was not seen often - but he was seen.
And dragons were always hungry.
So they fed, preemptive of his ire and wrath, they collected a tithe drawn annually and drew it up the long and dangerous road to his castle.
One lone old man, his family long gone years ago to an old blight of the Pale One was the sole volunteer to draw his rickety old cart up old forgotten paths. A road so dilapidated that one wrong move meant an early demise, but he accepted his duty to keep the youth safe, with nothing left to lose himself.
The tithe varied, they gathered gold when they could, or other valuable trinkets and metals - but they would send other treasures too, fine fabrics and wares from travelling merchants and such.
And then the harvest failed. Barely Enough to feed hungry mouths.
Drought.
They made do, scrapped together and made an adequate offering, a successful pilgrimage.
And then the next harvest failed.
Pestilence.
That year was harder, with loans and begging of nearby villages, heirlooms lost and hunger all round.
And then the next harvest failed.
Sickness.
And they couldn’t continue.
“I have been to Chemos! I’ve seen the splendor, traded for their goods!” the man argued, stood atop an empty crate in the very center of the tavern, “we have angered the Pale One, he brings down blow after blow, we need to do what Chemos does and send -“
He’s cut off by a rise in chatter and clashing, the slamming of fists and all manner of agreement and disagreement for the course of action to take.
The crowd gathered in the old tavern was an old one, but they were hardly wise, especially as the pangs of hunger and three long years weighed heavy - and the heavier weight yet of an impossible tithe and worse blight to come for their insolence.
“Well it was Ol’ Kravos’ family ‘ho insulted the Pale One with that li’tle bronze statue and started-“
“-OI DON’T YOU!”
The squabbles only rose in pitch and volume as various factions argued about the cause, the solution, and just about anything they could.
“Enough!”
A single voice cut through the chatter with more force than a claw could have.
Though he was considered the authority, given he was one of the oldest by far - who had lived through the old blights where most had died, since it was he who carried each and every tithe when that trip might well have spelled doom.
“Arguing will not solve the ask or the answer. We vote, a show of hands,” he sounded weary, like he already knew the result.
The vote was held in utter silence, with almost a swell of shame that bubbled up in the room. But cheeks were too gaunt, too hollow, and bellies of the children now in bed rumbled too loudly.
The old man had raised his hand, he knew he could have kept it down - to have taken the route that kept his wizened hands ‘clean’ and it still would have passed in majority - but in his heart he knew he deserved to wear his guilt on his sleeve for this act.
Still, he muttered, breath slow on his tongue, “and thus we find ourselves monsters of men”
For Chemos, while they sent riches and silks and incense, they also sent pretty young things for their dragon to devour.
It was sickeningly natural, how you were chosen.
No family, mother dead and father gone for years to trade with far off lands, now presumed dead in absence. Not wedded, no children.
Pretty and young.
And well, a volunteer. They came with heavy faces and heavier hands to deliver the news - to thank you regardless of the circumstance, but to their great surprise there was no fight in you.
Only hands that trembled and a head that hung heavy.
It was nice at least, that it was not a thankless procession, that they let you dress nicely and say goodbye to your things.
The older ladies kissed your hands and cheeks, cried precious tears made with the little water they had. Tears that were sorrowful and hopeful in equal measure, much like you were, a mix of fearful and resolute.
The men gave knowing nods, a few clapping your shoulder or grasping your forearm with a firm but not unkind shake.
The ones who knew your parents couldn’t bare but to look away in shame, shielding their own children.
And the children, the ones who knew no better, innocent to your fate but perceptive beyond measure. The little ones you tutored watching with eager questions on their lips as you were walked out the little rickety cart.
You try your best to savour it all, the feeling of the cobbles beneath your feet, peering down the side streets you’d ran through as a child to see the little houses you’d never see again.
The world seems to almost sway in your vision, and in a way it makes it a relief to be picked up and sat in the back of the cart. When did you get here already?
Golden light begins to bloom over the horizon, painting the landscape in swathes of golden light that will soon turn into rays of unbearably harsh heat. It doesn’t just paint the earth though, it paints everything, the wood beside you, the finest white robes you own, and your skin.
You can’t help but look at the radiant glow of white bleeding orange and think of dragon fire. Soon.
The man who picked you up and sat you upon the cart takes one good look at you, staring so deeply into your eyes you almost want to bolt right then and there. But he averts his gaze with a dreadful sigh, filled with remorse and pain and guilt.
He shakes his head at Ol’ Kravos standing nearby, and that’s when they bring out the rope.
Oh. Your mouth runs unbearably dry as you open your mouth to voice your protests. You’d walked here! You’d - you’d agreed-
They didn’t need to-
Every knot was tied twice - they might not have needed to, but at this stage of desperation they needed the assurance that you couldn't.
It was already a gamble that might not pay off, and much like a rabbit in a snare, you didn’t let it out even if it was frozen in the fear and acceptance of its fate.
Lest it bolt into the woods and you go hungry.
So while the jute digs into you and rough untreated length scratches at your skin you don’t protest.
Legs together, arms behind your back, and a length around your waist tying you to the back of the open wagon.
When the old man arrives in his best, only donned once a year, he takes one look at your pitiful form, hat to stave off the harshest of the heat casting long shadows down his gaunt face. He sees the way you fold in on yourself, almost fetal, with white gown cinched at every line of rope and the dread pooled in his stomach only grows.
“Won’t somebody get the poor girl a shawl?”
There’s a mad scramble as the man takes long slow steps to the front, clipping in the old mare who was once the foal of the older mare, of the original who had started on these journeys oh so long ago.
One of the older ladies climbs into the back on shaky legs, takes off her thin, wispy layer, a relic of fairer days long passed. She kisses the top of your head with trembling lips and thanks you on behalf of her grandchildren. Two little boys that she believes will live because of you.
You feel the tap of wet on your cheek as her tears drip down onto your face before she can wipe them away, and she lays the shawl over you to offer some protection from the sun to come - and perhaps a little dignity too, though it feels far too close to a funeral shroud or a wedding veil.
In any case you’re glad for it - while the first tear may have been hers, the cloth allows you to hide the ones that follow.
And then you set off, with the crack of a whip that never reaches flesh the old mare begins plodding along, shadows stretching out behind her as the sun backlights the silhouette of the end.
FUCK IT IM REBLOGGING IT IN THE ART BLOG TOO!! EVERYONE GO SHOW SOME LOVE TO THIS OR IM NEVER POSTING ART AGAIN!!! ITS SO GOOD I REFUSE TO LET IT GO UNNOTICED
I think a lot of people talk about grim reaper mortarion, but what about charon mortarion? Spiritfarer mortarion?
Mortarion x reader where he takes a little soul upon his boat, they don't have payment but that's ok. He's been lonely for so long, and technically he's not giving free passage if they never leave his boat right?
Anyway I made art for it. It's x oc, but honestly I'm so brainrotted with charon mortarion that I might do some x anon doodles later....
I think a lot of people talk about grim reaper mortarion, but what about charon mortarion? Spiritfarer mortarion?
Mortarion x reader where he takes a little soul upon his boat, they don't have payment but that's ok. He's been lonely for so long, and technically he's not giving free passage if they never leave his boat right?
Anyway I made art for it. It's x oc, but honestly I'm so brainrotted with charon mortarion that I might do some x anon doodles later....
