The Spawn of Zora

Once upon a time, when the world was still young, an island lay—embedded far off into the sea, its existence forgotten. The desolate land was nothing to behold compared to the rest of the world. Its ground cracked and ashy, doomed to be swallowed by the sea. However, something miraculous happened before fate could set its jaws upon it and sink it into the sea. It was said that a god had seen the potential of the land and revived it with a seed they embedded into the earth. As time passed, the island grew lush with life and vegetation. Creatures the likes of which one has never seen were born from the soil, reaching their timid hands to the sky.

The species born from this island were indeed beautiful. They believed themselves to be shaped after the likeness of their god they called 'Zora,' meaning 'Creator.' These creatures' eyes were like perfectly round pearls that gleamed in the light; their dark skin reflected the stars in the sky above at night, and their fiery silver hair swayed gently in the wind. They took it upon themselves to call their species' Xathurians'.

Xathurians treated the land like a mother, taking what they needed and nothing more, thanking her for its prosperity. They used their resources to build their lives. They built houses, churches, and schools; some found love and built families. The whole village came together every day and worshiped Zora. They offered many gifts to make them pleased, such as delicate handmade items or savory delicacies. They lived happily, never knowing there was a bigger world beyond the ocean.

Just like all life, Xathurians were mortal, unable to escape death. Families would sit beside their loved ones as they lay in their beds, their voices as soft and comforting as possible. "Don't worry." They whisper, "It's ok to go; Zora is waiting for you with open arms." Their eyes closed, their fire began to dim, and they dissolved into the sky to sit side by side with Zora. Content as they were, none had directly spoken to Zora, nor it to them. Regardless of this, Xathurians continued to worship them. They believed that if their faith were strong enough, they would be visited by Zora and prosper further in their divine company.

But one day, a dark cloud hung ominously over the island. Its gaping red center is a black pit swallowing up the light. The Xathurians looked up in shock, wondering, "Could this be a sign from Zora himself?" Something began to fall from the cloud, trailing feathers along its path. Hitting the ground with a SPLAT, the village gathered around to behold. The creature before them had the likeness of them only in figure. Its eyes were different, its hair like a lion's mane, and their flesh like smooth silk. The wings on its back set this creature apart from the Xathurians: long, graceful, and white as a dove. A golden ring hovered above its head, giving off a faint glow.

It's blood pooled around it, seeping from its head. Its face was in a perpetual look of horror as it stared back into the sky. The Xathurians looked up to follow its gaze. One by one, more and more bodies fell from the cloud—hundreds by the second. People ran in fear for their houses, only to be caved in by the weight of the dead. Men, women, and children were crushed into the ground, unable to move or cry for help. Desperate to escape, survivors crammed into a cave near the shore. They covered their ears to block out the horrible noise of snapping bones and hopeless screams. Piles upon piles of bodies filled the island, drenching the green pastures with blood.

Morning arrived and showed its light into the cave. The people slowly crawled out and looked onto their island. All the beauty had been painted red and littered with torn, mushy flesh. Trekking back to their villages with heavy thoughts, they found half their village had been reduced to rubble. "Why has our God forsaken us?" they cried. "Have we done something to anger them?". They accused each other of heinous crimes, looking for a scapegoat for the wrath of Zora, but none were brought forth. Resigning to their grief, they beat the ground in anger, for they were powerless in the eyes of Zora.

***

You might think that this would be where their misery stopped, That they carried on with their lives, never knowing what they could have done to anger Zora, but happy to be alive. But fate had other plans for the Xathurians. Once every month, the same tragedy would repeat itself: horrible bloody screams, desolated houses, and extinguished lives. The people would wait until the storm passed, then come to the surface to rebuild. By the year's end, half of the Xanthurians were gone.

With golden tears, they gathered up as many creatures as possible and cast them into the ocean. After this became too laborious, they burned the creatures into a pile. Their village was now a festering wound that they had no choice but to live in, the scent of rot and burned flesh suffocating. No matter how many times Xathurians rebuilt the village, it would be gone by the end of the month. The people who had once worshiped Zora had been thinning. Every day, two or sometimes three people would go up to the altar of Zora and spit on it. Then they walked into the ocean, doomed to exile. These people were never heard from again.

After five long years, the Xathurians had had enough; they had plotted to escape the island. They decided that they would go to find Zora and demand an explanation as to why this plague had befallen them. For this, they ripped the wings from the creatures and sewed them to their backs. With their newfound flight, they took to the skies. They glanced down at their island, saw how small it was, and scoffed, "With these wings, we can do anything we want!".

They took up arms, flying up and up through the dark clouds that oppressed them. They flew high enough to reach the base of heaven's throne. The throne was inlaid with gold and fine silk, towering over the Xathurians. But none were sitting on the throne, for heaven had been wholly abandoned. Each Xathurain claimed, "I should be god. I would be much better at it than he ever was." "No, I should be god, for I am fair and just."

Accusation after accusation, they attacked each other with their words. One Xathurian made a break for the throne but was intercepted by a spear thrown into his chest. Their wings faltered, and they plummeted back down to the earth. Everyone froze; murder had never been something they condoned, but if it was all that stood between them and the throne of god, then they were willing to make the jump. Slashed throats, impaled hearts, and bloody claws had found their way into heaven. The Xathurians had turned against their kind for a chance to wield godly power despite all having the same goal. 

When the last two Xathurians were left airborne, they each claimed they would be god anew and bring new life to their islands. But when the spears left their hands, they gazed into each other's eyes as their blood ran down their chests, both their hearts being snuffed out. They fell to the earth, watching the distance between the land and them closing. SPLAT! The last Xathurian alive was helpless as he looked up at the sky as the red cloud formed above him. But this time, he was somewhere new. Strange faces had gathered around to witness him take his final breaths. These faces were familiar; they looked similar to the creatures that had fallen onto their island but lacked wings.

With his final drawn breath. The last Xathurian whispered to himself as his vision faded, "Forgive me, Zora." His soft voice only fell upon mortal ears. The last sound he heard was the agonizing screams of the innocent as they were buried in divine carcasses.