conversations: human
conversations:  Beneath the hot Suryaci sun, a large pavilion had been erected from sticks and yellow wool, the color of the cape of the slain Warshepherd Gusuhaz Kw’Sewi. Though their death had been several years ago, the confusion as to the exact location where the grieving Sawut Kw’Torineti had buried their broken body had made it difficult to obtain a place to perform proper funeral rites. Finally, however, Mekabir Kw’Mesihafi, the Curator of Mysteries, claimed that Gusuhaz had spoken to them in a dream, and directed the search parties to the exact location: here, beneath a small cairn of toppled stones, on the border of Suryaci and Yatrhajidaat Gitj. But now the burial site had been found, and the Curators and librarians and warriors of the Korebita had swarmed to the location to witness the funeral rites of the famous hero. After all, as every follower of the Elder Memories knew, a hero’s death held great power, and one as notorious as Gusuhaz Kw’Sewi might produce a great effect indeed. In these dark times, with blightspawn rising in the west and Salt Demons invading to the east, a miracle would truly be needed.
  
  All were invited to witness the funeral, even those who generally had been considered enemies of the United Abiherist Tribes. It was thought by the Curators that the sight of the miracle, however it manifested, might turn some away from their false faiths and ignorant superstitions, and so Abiherists, Hozhisans, Children of the Great Mother, and practitioners of the Way of Green were all welcomed as one.
  
  Standing around the cairn were the Curators of the Bete Great Library, proud representatives of the Oracles of Elder Memories. On the left, the legendary Crimson Curator, Oyem Kw’Mesihafi, their skin wrinkled with age but their muscles still strong. On the right, smiling and welcoming the various dignitaries who arrived to the pavilion, Kahin Kw’Mesihafi, the Curator of Traditions. Behind the two of them, shaded by a scraggled palm tree, pale-faced Gotor Kw’Mesihafi and jewelery-encrusted Genizeb Kw’Mesihafi, Curators who, it seemed, lacked the prestige of their comrades. And standing directly in front of the cairn, an eerie smirk on their face and a crazed light in their eyes, was the mysterious Mekabir Kw’Mesihafi, the suddenly ascendant Curator of Mysteries. The Curators waited patiently, greeting each high-ranking dignitary as they arrived.
conversations: Gaius Hermicus:
conversations: human
conversations:  At last, all who were in attendance had gathered, and it was time for the funeral to begin. Raising their hands in tandem, the Curators began to chant, a slow, mournful song. As the dirge raised to a crescendo, Oyem stepped forward from the crowd and solemnly intoned   And now the vigil of Gusuhaz Kw’Sewi is ended. The Warshepherd, caller of battle, seeker of justice, continental crusader, explorer into the unknown. We mourn the fallen hero, as they ascend to the halls of Dumuzi to sit at the table of Sewi Chain-Breaker, their heroic ancestor, and we, still here on earth, bound to mortal bodies, celebrate their greatness. We call upon you, Gusuhaz, release that which holds you back from your eternity! 
  
       A cloud passed over the formerly sunny sky, and dark shadows fell upon the assembly of mourners. From Gusuhaz’s grave, a pale blue mist began to rise, forming the faint outline of a broken-horned ram, its wool tangled, its face wrenched with agony…
  
      A scream rang out in the dim light, shaking the listeners to their core. The shape of the ram flickered as observers turned back toward the Curators, whose formation had been shattered. Two of their number lay, slain, in the dirt, their eyes goggling as blood spilled from gashes in their sides. Mekabir Kw’Mesihafi, cackling with an abhorrent glee, plunged their dagger again and again into the third Curator, who lay slumped and bleeding against the ground. Oyem made a sudden movement, reaching for the Crimson Blade that had so long hung at their side, but the sword had been given away to Sawut Kw’Torineti years ago, and no weapon was now available to the Crimson Curator. As Mekabir delivered the coup de grace to the last of the screaming Curators, four librarians, mad laughter spilling from their lips, grabbed Oyem, forcing them to their knees and holding the powerful, but aging, Curator of Heroism to the ground. Mekabir straightened up, allowing their dagger to fall from their hand. They would not need it for what came next.
  
        Great Warshepherd! Your vigil is not yet complete!  shrieked Mekabir, their madness clear from the awful mirth in their eyes.   You have unfinished business here, I know, oh yes I know. Appear to us once again, Gusuhaz, stay your ascent to the heavens! 
  
      The ram’s form dissipated, and in its place the flickering head of Gusuhaz Kw’Sewi appeared, agonized and terrified. Mist spilled off their body and into the crowd, a fog of confusion and chaos.  Let me go!  the apparition wailed.
  
       You cannot leave us, Gusuhaz, not yet!  Mekabir screamed over the howling wind.  I have need of you yet! Go,  Warshepherd, beyond the veil! Bring me back the shade of Yegin Kw’Haleti! 
  
      Gusuhaz vanished, and for a moment the fog and the wind and the darkness were gone as well. The crowd began to stir nervously, and it seemed a few might run, but then with a crack of lightning, the shade of Gusuhaz returned, and with them appeared the mighty, muscular form of the long-dead Yegin. With a gasp, Mekabir snatched at both shades, but their hands went straight through the apparitions. They fell to their knees, gasping for breath - and as they gasped, the forms of the shades began to flicker, and the fog pouring off of their bodies spilled into Mekabir’s mouth. And then, at last, with a final wail, both of the dead heroes were gone, their souls swallowed by the maddened Curator of Mysteries.
  
      Mekabir laughed again, an awful high-pitched cackle.  With the power of these heroes, unlawfully slain, I call back to earth the one who death never conquered. Adeni, ancient hunter, return to us and bestow upon us your might and wisdom! 
  
      They breathed out the smoky vapor that was all that remained of Gusuhaz and Yegin, which filtered up into the air. Though it was only midday, the sky was dark as night, scattered with stars, and as they watched, the stars began to spin and flicker, and it seemed as though they were falling out of the sky itself. The stars grew larger as they fell, and the recognizable constellations warped and twisted into shapes beyond the conception of mortals. And then the stars were gone, and the sky itself was invisible behind the wall of meat and fur and blood-red starlight that was Yatrhajidaat Gitj. A thousand feet tall tall, its fur as black as the night sky, and its form so twisted that its mere presence was beyond the limits of the mind, and it shattered sanity and crippled wisdom. And on its back, clinging to the Cosmic Hyena’s fur, was the wild-eyed hunter Adeni themself, a twelve-foot tall blemmyae, whose own skin was as black as the fur of their demonic foe and speckled with the same red stars. Their body stretched to its absurd length, but stretched thin as a rail, whipping about in the wind, each star burned into their flesh flickered and opened and closed like a mouth. And neither Adeni, nor the hyena, nor Mekabir, nor any of the observers, could refrain from laughing, a hideous choking wail of joyless mirth mixing with the howls of the wind, a taunt to the universe that believed it could prevent the return of the Cosmic Hyena, devourer of worlds, and to the arrogant mortal who believed they could do battle with such a creature for millenia, and remain sane, and keep it trapped. And the Cosmic Hyena’s own giggling laughter was like a thundercloud, shaking the forests of Yatrhajidaat Gitj and the crags of Suryaci and the entire earthly foundations of Kiswa to their very cores.
  
      A thousand red mouths splitting open on their skin, their body stretching with bone-breaking force, Mekabir stepped toward Adeni, their eyes now blind mandibles choking out laughter, their stomach spilling its half-digested contents onto the ground with each gasp of hilarity from its hundred new ruptures, and between chortles, managed to spit out the words  O great hunter Adeni, undying one, your presence on this earth is needed once again! Give up your quest to keep away the Cosmic Hyena, set aside your ancient mission, and restore greatness to this earth once again! In your place, we offer this one, the greatest of the heroes living on our world today, to fend away our destruction! 
  
      The cackling librarians released their hold on Oyem and shoved them toward the border, yet there was no need to force them toward the Hyena. The Crimson Curator walked of their own free will, gritting their teeth against the maddening laughter filling the air. The knowledge of their mission was certain. Whatever Mekabir’s intentions, or the madness of their plan, the Cosmic Hyena could not be permitted to roam the world free. It had barely been contained millenia ago, and there were few heroes of Adeni’s calibre today. Oyem’s last stand, it seemed, would be in battle against the Hyena, grisly battle against this last monster, spending eternity locked in combat in the skies. They breathed a final breath of the cool Kiswan air and grasped the Hyena’s star-speckled hide, staring into the creature’s awful, fiery eyes.
  
      And the Hyena, barely looking at Oyem, flicked its paw, and the Crimson Curator flew through the air, soaring five hundred feet into the sky, and the Hyena snapped them out of the air with its slavering jaws. There was a sickening crunch as every bone in Oyem’s body was smashed to dust and every muscle reduced to pulp, and the Cosmic Hyena swallowed their broken body into its gullet, blacker than the blackest of midnights. And Adeni and Mekabir and all the assembled collapsed to the ground, laughing despite their agony, stretching and tearing as the cackling red stars covered their bodies, marking them with the seal of the Cosmic Hyena, which turned and loped away into the center of Yatrhajidaat Gitj, the tides of tormented laughter following it and spreading as a plague.
conversations: Gaius Hermicus: