The Sixfold Path/Prophecies

A Dream of the Maiden

As revealed to Speaker Cissa Passeri

The dreams came back, as they always did.

Cissa awoke in a field, a sloping hill just in front of her. The sun shone brilliantly so that it seemed there was no shadow and Cissa wondered what had happened to the dawn. There was a young woman with a blue dress and her dark hair the color of turned earth on top of the hill. “There you are!” the girl said in happy greeting. “I have been waiting for you again.”

“You have been waiting? Have I kept you long?” Cissa asked.

“No,” she said and smiled. The young woman’s voice was unremarkable except that it flowed to Cissa’s ear like a song. She beckoned Cissa closer. “We wait for you always. Believe it or not, patience is a very necessary trait for the gods.”

“The… gods?” Cissa blinked a little and looked at the young woman closer. She did not look like any of the major goddesses, with neither the gold hair of Sifa nor the armor or necklace of Freya. “You are… Ydunn? The goddess of youth and wife to the god of poetry, Bragi?”

The young woman laughed out loud and smiled as if at a very good joke. “That is close, perhaps one of the best names you could find for me,” she said and put her hand into a leather purse at her side. The young woman drew out a single seed, an apple seed, from the pouch and presented it to Cissa. It looked unremarkable and small. With great presentation the young woman placed the seed upon the ground next to her and pressed her fingertip into the ground. Cissa felt a shiver run through the earth and the breeze sighed through the air… and as the young woman lifted her finger a sprout erupted from the ground. It swelled and pushed and rose into a seedling, first the height of her calf, then her hip and then it grew up and over the seated young woman to a sapling. With an abundant shrug it twisted upwards and unfurled into an apple tree. Buds appeared and then blossomed into thick white flowers. They stretched and then swelled into small fruits that grew into red, red apples.

The young woman, a smile placed upon her lips, stood up and plucked a fruit from the tree and held it out to Cissa. She took it and the apple was warm with sunshine. She took a bite and it was sharp and sweet, but unlike anything she had tasted before.

“I am not Ydunn. Indeed, I have many names but none of them are necessary. I am simply the Maiden of beginnings and accord. I am no one’s wife but the breath of spring. I am the patron of harmony, of priests and diplomats. And you, even if you do not know it, belong to me Cissa Passeri.

“Now listen and hear: There are but six gods, three feminine and three masculine. We are the Maiden, the Mother, the Crone and the Fellow, the Father and the Fool. We may be called by other names, but you will recognize us in all the stages of life for you are made in our image and we are connected to you. After we created mankind the great Evil from the Deep, that which cannot be named, became jealous and wanted its own offspring. While we were vulnerable the Evil came and stole from each aspect. From the feminine it spawned monsters and from the masculine came forth the undead.

“With this corruption came the two tenants that you will preach. First, the divine made a vow that we would never steal from humans as the Evil stole from us. Mankind has free will. We can come to you and wait for you, we may even tempt you but we cannot make humans bow to our wishes. The gods will not write your destiny.

“Second, it is your place to correct the wrong that was done to us all with the creation of monsters and undead. Humans are compelled to fight the undead and monsters and to subdue all regions to human control. This is our ongoing plea to you: defend the world from the Evil that was loosed upon it.”

“I do not want to start a religion.” Cissa said.

“I know you do not want this,” the young woman said and she reached out a hand to caress Cissa’s cheek, “and I cannot make you. Let us come to you and maybe we can convince you.”

Cissa nodded in her dream, disbelieving. She awoke in her bed with the sweetness of the apple still in her mouth.

A Dream of the Fellow

As revealed to Speaker Cissa Passeri

The dreams came.

“FORWARD!” someone shouted and Cissa felt the jostle of the army line as it flowed like an incoming tide past the nobles. Their march rang in her chest but maybe that was just her heart beating against her leather armor. The horse shifted nervously beneath her, pawing a hole in the ground. Her mounts were always edgy and difficult when the undead were near.

It was growing to night and the lay of the ground made it darker. Torchbearers were stationed every nine or ten men and bonfires were being lit at the edges of the retreat line. The fire and the heat felt more reassuring as the shadows thickened and something moved in the gloom ahead. In the falling dark it seemed a great many somethings. A horde.

“READY!” the voice rang out across the field. Her archers pulled their bows and took aim at the man-shapes limping towards them.

“FIRE!” came the Marshal’s command and she echoed the cry to her troops. The arrows leapt singing off of their strings. Cissa watched a fanged thing that had been a woman fall to the ground. Nearby another body was pinned to the earth but continued to shake. Something that might have been a dog broke through the press and came for her men. She shouted to the archers again and a hail of shafts felled the horror.

They were getting too close for arrows. Her horse was actively sidestepping to pull her away. She gave a signal and her captain called for them to fall back. The infantry, swords in hand, moved forward.

Immediately a single figure, taller than any of the others and bound in brilliant armor, strode into the thick of the fight. He raised his sword over his head and bellowed, “ATTACK!” Cissa recognized the shout of her commander.

He wielded a massive sword against the incoming undead. His stroke took an abomination armed with teeth like a leopard’s and cut it nearly in half. His backswing sheared through another ghastly hound. In great swaths the foes around him fell. As the horde thinned the great warrior looked back over his shoulder towards Cissa. He raised his gauntlet to his helm and lifted the visor up. The commander was a handsome man, an untroubled and attractive smile upon his lips.

He winked at her.

The great warrior’s movements were fluid with strength and grace. He looked more like he was dancing, his hand gently clasping sharpened steel instead of a partner. When the last enemy fell, the troops and the nobles pulled back to the bonfires but the commander stayed with the squires while they checked the battlefield to retrieve arrows and bring mercy the still writhing limbs of the undead. Cissa waited in the dark until the commander came to her across the spent battlefield.

“You are Thor,” she said reverently.

He threw back his head and laughed as though she had just shared a fine jest. “I am the Fellow. The Son,” he corrected. “Though you may call me Thor, if you wish. I am the god of the Warrior and Cavaliers.”

Even though they stood far from the torches and a distance from the bonfires she saw that his armor shimmered like the place just over a flame where the heat was invisible but most potent. He smelled like lightning. Cissa’s eyes watered.

“You were happiest when you belonged to me,” he said kindly, “when you were just a young woman and a warrior. No politics.”

“You are perhaps right,” Cissa said. “But are you not the god of my people: Strength, Courage, Valor?”

He smiled and she felt the glow of it. “Your realm is indeed a place of noble and prudent warriors. Hopefully it will reclaim its old glory. But,” he laid his gloved hand upon her wrist and bid her look at him fully. “I am the god of all warriors. That includes Sir Thorbjorn Blackmore, Royal Brakus Stien, and Duke Kindel Baranof though you would not speak his name. I do not abandon any who pick me and I do not play favorites in the games of men.”

Cissa did not reply, but neither did she argue.

“When you speak of me to others let it be as thus: that I am the god of passion and cunning, the god of the sword and of all who war. I watch with the General, ride with your warrior knights and march beside even the lowest squire when you meet your enemies. I am with you in victory and also with you in defeat. Often at the same time.”

Here Cissa did begin to argue, but the Fellow laughed again and covered her mouth. “No, you are still thinking too much. Come back to this battle, man against evil in stolen flesh, and you will always know me.”

She slid out of sleep and into her bed, the hot imprint of his hand still warm against her lips.

A Dream of the Mother

As revealed to Speaker Cissa Passeri

The dreams came again, this time softly in an afternoon nap.

The woman, dressed in buttercup yellow, held out her hand. She was seated on a garden bench, a shallow basket with a tight weave placed in her lap just under her large, rounded belly. She smelled like a garden gone wild, like comfrey, chamomile and lavender but somehow also fresh bread and apple brandy with honey.

“There you are!” she said and Cissa clasped her hand. It felt nice. The Mother gave Cissa’s fingers a little tug and she sat down. She had different herbs collected in her basket and Cissa had caught her stripping the leaves from a bundle of thyme plants. The woman’s face like her pregnant belly was rounded and soft and the smile upon her lips was comforting. There was a duck with green-black feathers seated near the woman’s feet, quietly asleep.

“You are the Mother. Frigga,” Cissa said matter-of-factly. Her voice was hushed even though it was only the two of them together.

“Of course!” she replied and gave her belly an affectionate rub. “My name is often the first word that is spoken from a child. Now, you,” she raised her eyes to Cissa and arched a brow, “first said, ‘Mama!’ to your mother’s favorite hunting dog. The one with the crooked tail that didn’t know to stay away from you? The big brown one?

“Oh! Your mother was so mad! She worked on you for three whole days trying to get you to say it to her but whenever that hound came by you’d reach for his fur and shouted it out. Now… I know that you meant it in a, ‘Look, mother! My favorite hound!’ way but your mother was very offended. On the third day she stopped trying and you looked her straight in the eye and called her Mama for the first time. She knew right then that you would be a willful child.” The Mother raised her eyebrow again. “You still are.”

“Are you the goddess of mothers or children then?” Cissa asked.

“Must I choose only one? I am the goddess of fertility, of healing and restoration. I am the matron of Courtiers, like yourself, and should be your goddess although I see that my Daughter already has plans for you. I am also the matron of soldiers who guard and defend.”

Cissa thought and asked, “The Fellow is the god of warriors. How are you the god of war as well, albeit defensive? Do you overlap with the Son?”

“Every warrior came from a mother. And is there any more fearsome a protector than a mother? You will find that many of the most important parts of life, like war or love, are held by several gods. Are not our children or parents a little bit a part of us, and us in them? Each aspect may be slightly different but it is one way we are completely present with you. You will find multiple gods and goddess of war in many religions and there is no paradox there.”

“How do you know which god or goddess to worship then?”

“Mostly a noble will dedicate himself or herself to the worship of a single god that speaks to their time of life or their career, but nothing is always that set. You must make the choice. For example, you have no children of your flesh… but you fostered the orphans of your family. Do you feel my pull of motherhood?”

“Yes,” Cissa said instantly.

“Ah, but you will be a dedicate to the Maiden. She will hear your prayers foremost… but I am always listening as well for you are a mother like me. And so is the Fellow, his Father and the Crone and the Sage.”

The Mother finished her work with the thyme and set the basket aside. She stood up awkwardly and beckoned Cissa with her. “Come, you must go meet my husband.”

They walked from the garden and into a keep; Cissa tucked the basket of herbs under her arm and matched the slow walk of the Mother. The goddess continued, “The Father and I are most worshiped by peasants. He is the god of harvest, of workmanship and technology. He forges the swords and the caravan alike. He is the god of lords and is loved for his wisdom.”

Servants and people walked purposefully through the household but did not look or greet them. The walls made her think she was in Ser’quea. She followed the Mother, comforted and warm, until they came to the walls. Here the mother kissed her cheek and took the basket. “On your way then,” she said. Cissa looked away towards the bright expanse of the fortifications and the wind blew up so strong she closed her eyes.

Cissa awoke feeling refreshed.

A Dream of the Father

As revealed to Speaker Cissa Passeri

She dreamed.

The Father had a gaze that did not seem to blink. A thick leather patch covered his left eye but the right shone a deep hazel color. He stood on top of the city walls with one hand on the battlement the other on the war hammer slung through his belt. A banner curled and flew with the lazy wind above him, snapping to attention as he tapped his fingers impatiently.

“Load again,” He called down. At the sound of his voice Cissa also snapped to attention and wanted something to do.

She looked over the edge inside the city. A large stone-throwing machine lay below. The counterweight was split, however with the machine mounted on a single, strong support post. It was mounted close to the wall, almost hanging over the fortifications. A collection of boulders were stacked below, but two soldiers loaded pumpkins into the bowl at the end of the arm.

“Launch!”

The pumpkin sailed over the wall and into the field below where it exploded. It did not look particularly on target to her. The Father fixed here with a calculating look. “How far awry was that shot?” he demanded.

Cissa could not even be certain what he was asking. “Perhaps… twenty yards, my lord? I couldn’t say for sure.”

His gaze did not waver. “The men who defend these walls will live or die by the accuracy of that shot. Be sure.”

Cissa looked again, and suddenly she knew. “Twenty-five yards, my lord,” she said with more assurance. The Father gave a short nod of approval, scrawled some figures on a tablet, and bellowed a string of numbers to the workers below.

His hand came to rest on the warhammer and he met her gaze again just as a large boulder now sailed overhead. Cissa watched over the edge as the stone landed with a great smash. It was perfectly aimed directly in the path of the main gate, the only path where an attacking army could bring their siege engines to attack the walls.

“That should please my lady wife,” he said with a sudden grin. “Walk with me, daughter.” Quickly and purposefully he descended a nearby ladder and strode across the field toward the workshops.

“You know who I am?” he asked.

“You are the All-Father; there could be no other.”

“Some have called me that,” he agreed, and tapped at the patch. “But do not think all is what it appears to be.” As he spoke they stepped into the low stone workshop. Cissa, coming from the bright mid-day sun, was blinded at first. As her sight adjusted to the dimmer room she realized his patch now covered the right eye, and the left was just a perfectly hazel colored.

“An old sea captain’s trick,” he explained. “Useful for when I must go in and out of these shops with no time to stand around sun-blinded. Give that bellows ten strong pulls.”

Cissa realized she was standing by a forge. She had never been in a forge before but without thinking reached to do as he directed her. “You have so much to build,” he growled. “You have seen the horrors that spawn in the wilderlands. Tell me, what makes you so different from them?”

She thought for a moment and the bellows rope in her hands gave her a ready answer. “Is it this, my lord, that we can create? We can build and repair? The ghouls and wargs can only destroy.”

“It is so,” he nodded, “but it goes deeper than that. They do not merely destroy, they are destruction. They are chaos and entropy, everything that falls apart. The stolen force that animates them cannot give them purpose. They can only rend and hate all creations of the will.

“It is by will, daughter, that you build. Cities are raised up from the earth for no other reason than enough humans have decided to raise them. Stones are laid, iron is forged, but it is will that drives all - if you choose.”

“What must I do, my lord?”

“Tame the hinterlands. Make the wilderness a fit place for humans to live. Use well this world we have given you, and do not abandon the land to decay.” He placed one strong finger gently but firmly on her forehead. “In here is the greatest gift I can give you. Use it in a way that the beasts and abominations can not, and all will be well.”

Cissa awoke with the pressing need to do something. She lit a candle and sat with her ledger for a while doing sums.