Mystic High ✓

MH │0

Islands of Scotland

Anagantios (January), 199 AD

In the thick of icy snow and crashing winds and rains, a fallen god battled his way across the Scottish Isles. Blood splattered onto the slippery sheen of ice that covered the rocks under his leather-bound feet.

Madness shone in his glowing red eyes.

The killing kept him sane. At least, that was what he was telling himself.

He was being hunted by the other gods. Had been for so many years he had lost count, at least, a century ago.

Placed and trapped upon this cursed isle-terrain to tire him, then to be killed by his own brethren, the daevas (demons). He was the one who bore them into the world and he now paid for it.

But in truth, he had committed no sin!

Ahriman was the sole cause of all things evil in the world. He was the one who gave life to the evil desires hidden within gods and mortals so that daevas would be brought forth into the physical realm. What would the world be like without some bad in it? In doing so, the world knew the difference between good and bad.

He gave the world knowledge. True knowledge.

He was a god! He contributed to the world in a meaningful way. But the other gods saw differently.

He was a danger, an angry and corrupt piece of the Maker. So, he must be spurned.

Ahriman spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground and charged, slicing his great sword down unto another one of his daevas. His.

He cried aloud in anguish. The other gods would pay for his and the daevas' demise. He would rise once more someday and exact due revenge.

Thunder and lightning shattered the sky. A delineation of a lone female figure, standing regal and tall, appeared from beyond the mist and ice.

Another enemy?

Ahriman roared and charged at the shadow. The horde of daevas following closely behind him.

One slashed his thigh, tearing into the black-coloured flesh and eliciting a cry from him. He turned and swept his sword across the air, decapitating several heads from their bodies.

Just as he reached his new target, the woman with bright violet eyes gleamed cleverly and held out a hand, palm up.

Time stood still for moments as she spoke. Her voice penetrating the beating sounds of rain and thunder and ice.

"Fear not warrior, I seek to help and ally with you." She spoke in the ancient tongue of Avestan, his native tongue, although her accent was clearly of another plane.

Ahriman lowered his sword slowly and he felt his body calm. He noticed that sunlight streamed onto where the woman stood. A calm halo bounded by a tempest. His skin welcomed the warmth of the Maker. Was there still hope for him? 

Yet, who was this woman that stood before him claiming to want to be his ally. She wore an almost transparent silk purple garment that complemented her eyes, chest bare safe for the fabric covering her peaked tips. Her bronze hair flowed ethereally around her. Ahriman narrowed his eyes at the stranger.

"Speak, woman. From which dwelling plane have yer come? What haves yer want of me?"

The woman took in a deep calming breath and spoke with such clarity he was bewitched. Ahriman had not heard a more beautiful voice in aeons.

"Maeve O'Connacht is my namesake, kin of Empress Meadb, the all-seeing Queen of Great Celtic-Scotia. I here wish to free you from your eternal jail–" She paused, "–for a price, of course, that would benefit us both."

Always a price. But a price I will gladly pay if I am to be rid of this place once and for all.

Ahriman no longer cared if this was a trap or not. He could not take another moment of this endless warring and no rest.

"Name yer wants, wee woman."

Maeve smiled chillingly, as though hugely satisfied she had already gotten her way, and crossed her arms at her breasts. "I require of you nothing yet, but a favour for the future."

"How distant a future? Are you immortal like the gods?"

"I am no god but I have powers to sustain my youth and health." Tapping a finger under her chin, she continued, "In order to escape this prison, you must acquire a new body. Perhaps embody a host?"

"I cannot possess an unwilling body."

"Then, a willing one." Maeve waved her hand in the air, materialising a male body.

He was handsome enough to suit Ahriman's godly self. The first feature he noticed was the mortal's dark hair, like the colour of Ahriman's skin. The mortal body was colossal, for a mortal, with shapely muscles covering every visible inch. Large masculine eyes were closed. Thick eyebrows and high cheekbones framed them. A squared tough jaw that saw the worst of days. There was a hideous blaring scar marking the whole of the left side of his body.

"He is O'Murchadha, but may be called Uilliam. The kin of a lowly fisherman who turned from his father's trade to brave the wars as a soldier. He died only a week ago, my magicks kept decay at bay." She must have thought Ahriman may be displeased with the body, so she added, "He is also of the wolves. A were."

That would explain the mortal's size.

Maeve allowed his perusal of the body she had kept for him. She had been watching the fallen god in his endless battles against evil creatures formed only in night terrors. Since then, she knew his current most unfortunate condition could be utilised. For months, Maeve had sifted through the world for an appropriate body. Fate had smiled on her the night she discovered the poor boy, dying a slow death on a battlefield. Maeve had ended him quickly and kept the body.

"Revered Ahriman, will you possess this willing body and leave this domain?" she purred, her eyes glowed with acquisitiveness. "Will you bind yourself to perform a favour for me in exchange for your freedom?"

If this is the only way. "Verra well, woman."

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