Eight Arms and the Mask

Once, the earth was dying. The god of hatred, fire spilling from his third eye, raised his club for the final blow on Ernalda, the earth's queen. The club he carried was the weapon called Death, which had already taken so many gods, and would now take another. And then soon, the universe. The god of hatred, if he thought of such things, minded it not. He hated the universe as much as he did anything else. The club did not fall. A woman sprung from Ernalda's dying body, and her hand closed on Zorak Zoran's wrist and broke it. Death fell from his hand as he howled, and the woman picked it up. The club shifted and writhed like a snake, and then it was an axe. Long-hafted, with a blade of black iron. She moved as if to raise it, and Zorak Zoran fled. He hated dying even more than anything. The woman then turned to her mother, lying broken, and prepared to weep. No tears came. Her mother slept. She was not dead. The woman called out, and summoned those attendants of Ernalda ...

I first heard this story in an Esrolian barracks. Hearing it is very different from reading it, for when you hear it performed there are always Red Women banging on the tables, yelling encouraging things to the speaker, whistling and cheering, and occasionally throwing glances your way. I found this written version in Holay, in the Knowing God's temple in Fylich Kwan. I cannot at this time speak to any regional differences between the Esrolian, Holayan, and any other versions that may exist. It was the days when the Grand Order had not been lost, but was slipping away. It was the days when Orlanth was King of the Gods and there were many gods to be king of still. It was in those days when Vinga went out from the tula to go fishing. This was not an extraordinary event. She was still a young woman, not quite ready in her own mind to plow the luscious fields of the Storm Tribe. But wherever she went, she carried her spear and her shield with her, and many were the eyes...