The Crèche Of Filth
A Tale In The World Of Ur-Earth
Deep below the Earth’s surface, hidden under cellars of ancient castles, and where the roots of the mountains dig deep, is the Stagnant Labyrinth. A abyssal domain where all the evils of perpetual gloom reside, in the darkest of shadows, where dark water and blackened lava flows.
Over the bridge built by the Dwarf Grand Kingdom, those who dare try to survive the bedamned depths would reach a vacuous cistern. Ancient signs etched into the primordial stone call that place the Bloody Christ Insidium. Roaming through those halls would eventually lead one to wander until their eternal damnation, or till they reach the Altar Of The Niger Christ.
The unholy totem of worship of the extinct dwarf race, the altar is made of iron and rock made of stone, with a icon of the Niger Christ hanging from a crucifix made of blue steel. Despite light being a taboo for the foreboding shadows, there was an unnatural pale light that shone from an opening in the sealing.
Brighter than the moon, yet it enhanced the darkness, and brought comfort to the dark creatures that live in the hell that is that labyrinth.
Stairs lead down on either side of the altar to a vast lake of black, almost still water. Gently swaying because of the horrific beasts that reside under its surface, waiting to grab hold of the victim who falls into the icy waters.
Such unholy denizens are warded away by a green light, one that emits from the ferryman, whose name is Gohgt. A skeleton wearing a cloak of sparkling shadows, snakes and spiders make their homes in his bones. Guiding the ship from its stern, as his lantern hovered about the water, casting an aura of green light.
Frightening away those that shun light coming from the source of grace, nothing in the labyrinth bothers him in his duty, to ferry wayward travelers across the many interconnecting bodies of water.
As long as his price is paid in advance, he’d take anyone safely to wherever they wished that could be reached by the waterway. His most recent passenger paid in a purse of silver from a human kingdom; not of the best craftsmanship, but the amount was good enough to pay passage.
Standing at the stern, the passenger watched the path ahead, almost mesmerized by the ghostly light that beaconed dry land ahead. Occasionally though he would look into the black depths of the water, and notice what appeared to be a mass of countless eyes staring at him, just beneath the surface.
“Must this place be so damned wicked?” His words didn’t incite a response from the ferryman. He was not one for conversation, only enough words passed his chattering teeth to ask for a toll, and tell someone to disembark. “You must be a rather miserable companion on long voyages.” Fearing he slighted the ferryman with his words, he looked over and saw no change in demeanor of the skeletal guide. “I fear this place holds great evil.”
“Then why did you come?” The ferryman spoke with a disembodied voice of someone of high birth, as he uttered each word his skeletal mouth would chatter about, as if he were a puppet to some invisible entity.
“I come for my own business.” The passenger feigned indignation, but knew it was to avoid speaking of his mission, out of fear.
“You speak with great fire, yet the furnace burns coldly.” somewhat a poet in his own right, Gohgt had a comedic sadism when it suited his humor. “Fear is a delightful treat for the denizens of the Labyrinth.”
The passenger paid no more heed to the ferryman, as he tried to embolden himself with thoughts of his mission—to find his father.
Bröas Allaphonze, prince to the throne of the northern realm Ilyren, having escaped his retainers who wanted to safeguard the crown prince's safety, to search for his father, the king. Those in his court claim King Aklandis had gone mad, having spent many months locked in his study, reading books forbidden by the church, they say it corrupted his soul.
Despite the prince’s harsh condemnations, the court still believed in the rumors, that the King had forsaken the teachings of Christ, and had descended the cellars of the Tower Of Athü. Formally the seat of power to a depraved magician, the tower was left abandoned when crusaders crucified the magician, and buried his bones in an unmarked grave.
Deep under the tower, there is said to be a door that leads to the Stagnant Labyrinth, from which all sorcery and evilness seeps into the world above. Driven mad the King was last seen riding for the Tower, and has yet to return after many months. Despite ordering a rescue party, none dared to search for the king inside the Labyrinth.
Even the bravest knights in the crown service only dared search the tower, but never dared cross the threshold that they found in the basement. A bewitching gate, chiseled into obsidian stone, it depicted bones and brambles of thorns, intermingling into an unholy configuration.
All attempts to seal the dread gate failed, no brickwork stood form, and eventually toppled by an unseen power, other barriers were similarly removed. Nothing stopped the open invitation into the dark hell world from continuing to exist.
As fears of the Prince seeking out his father by himself grew, the court ordered him under house arrest, but this proved naught as he escaped one night. Before he was discovered missing he already rode miles ahead of the pursuing party and made it to the tower, and as he heard the screams for him to return he entered the tower.
Bounding at full speed into the cellar where he found the awaiting gate, and entered. Having read old maps by explorers who braved the unholy abyss, he read of a ferryman, and managing to navigate to the edge of a pond next to a stream, he waited till the boat arrived. Accepting his payment, the prince asked to be taken to his father, the ferryman obliged but noted that he could only take him as close as the water could lead.
Some hours of traveling by water, and nearly being hypnotized by the mind warping black waters, the Prince felt a firm impact. Stumbling back, he found the skiff had arrived at the stairs of the cistern, of the Bloody Christ Insidium.
“Your father awaits beyond the bridge, there you’ll find the Crèche Of Filth, your father told me he is looking for the Wish Mirror. I’ll wait for a day and a half for your arrival, if you don’t come by then, you’ll join your father.” Gohgt’s words were taken to heart by the Prince who nodded, and disembarked, but not before he heard the ferryman’s parting words. “Try to save yourself, he has looked too far into the darkness.”
Not resigning his father to some lonesome fate, the Prince stepped onto the stairs, and walked up till he saw the Altar Of The Niger Christ. Looking upon its depraved, distorted, naked body made him sick and terror stricken. Averting his eyes away from the profane icon, he moved onward towards the bridge, but not before he heard words that sounded so perverse, it could only be spoken by the devil.
“Your fate has been cut into my flesh, the covenant is sealed by your doom.” Prince Bröas looked back, feeling a shock of hair bristling pain run up his spin and impacting his skull. Some fear penetrated him and after exploding has left him shaken.
“Who goes there?” The ferryman was silent in his skiff, and the only thing that could possess a voice in that haunting location was the icon of the Niger Christ. Looking up at it, he watched in body stiffening fright as from its ebony brow dripped blood, dark crimson that streamed down its face, and dripped from the chin to the altar below.
Not wanting to linger upon such a ghastly sight he forged ahead, using a surge of adrenaline to push aside his fear, as he rested his sword arm on the grip of his sword. In his mind he recited the Lord’s prayer, again and again he spoke the solemn words the church taught him to give him strength.
‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.’
Though the prayer gave him comfort, there was a loneliness that came over him, as he went deeper into the darkness. Lighting a oil lamp he brought with him, Bröas could only see himself in the fires light, and not far into the defeating darkness.
Echoes of his bootsteps and breathing seemed to die out suddenly after the third or forth repeat, leaving a sinister paranoia in the Prince’s mind. Halting, Bröas felt his flat chest bulge then shiver as if a spectral hand passed through his heart. Stout as a baby elephant with the knotted muscle mass of a jungle primate. The Prince was from a lineage of fighters, warrior blood had left scars like tattoos on his arms and one across his forehead, fighting off marauders, his heart would pump lava in his veins when he needed that killer reflect.
With one arm he freed his sword from its scabbard, Atöria the long sword made of blue steel, was a jagged blade that looked as if it were a flattened serpent, in its serpentine design. Dropping the lamp to the ground, allowing the flame to extinguish, he held the sword on high, as it started to brightly glow with a radiant sapphire glow.
Instantly he saw into the darkness, and saw the labyrinth's denizens, their forms no longer hidden by the shadows. Crooked bodied zombies skidded around in the darkness, dressed in tatters of garb from their former lives, their teeth had taken a blunted shape.
Despite their rotted, gory appearance, their eyes had a brightness, resembling that of humans, uncorrupted by devil craft. Before they could overwhelm him by their growing numbers, the Prince held back his sword, and with a titanic swing slammed his blade into the nearest zombie’s skull.
Knocking back the gurgling freak, the sword left a seething mark, as blue iron does to those enthralled to Cancerous Evil—the relief of seeing the strength of his strikes however ended as he saw the fallen zombies started to rise from the ground.
Stirring into attacking sooner than they wanted, the zombies started to reach out for Bröas, whose sword’s light grew brighter as more came at him from the darkness. Hacking and whacking the incoming attackers with heavy swings, the Prince only managed to knock the undead thralls to the ground, only for them to rise again, without showing signs of pain.
Ducking under their outstretched arms, he dashed through the narrow gaps between the bodies of the dead—however no matter how far he moved through them, more zombies came, and there didn’t seem an end to the horde.
Gurgled turned into fear inducing growls, not quieted sounds, but fierce, almost snarling calls for flesh to rend and blood to squeeze out. Cold, grimy hands reached out for him, their jagged fingernails cut at the prince’s skin, but he managed to elude them—until he ran into a sheer brick wall.
Turning around he sought an escape, but the zombies had cornered him, their eyes shone with the haunting glare of the damned. Arms outstretched, the zombies approached the prince, with Atöria he hacked at the clawing hands of the dead.
Nothing he did seemed to repel them for long, as he thought his blue steel sword would be enough protection, as it is said that blue steel can utterly destroy evil. Cancerous Evil however, that is what resides in the Stagnant Labyrinth, nothing known to his kingdom could prevail against its insidious nature.
A zombie grabbed hold of Bröas’s sword, flinging it into the distant darkness, leaving the prince without even a sword to delay the seemingly inevitable.
Screaming out in futility and despair, the Prince felt the grip of a zombie start to tear at the cheek of his face—but then a flash of brilliant flame, so bright, the Stagnant Labyrinth was lit up as it would be outside on a bright summer day.
Standing behind the zombie horde was a swordsman, one dressed in a hood and cloak of crimson. Attire was battle worn, and the raiment he wore was a heavy chainmail of gold and silver chains. Wearing many amulets of various depictions of the crucifix of the Faith Of The Bloody Christ, the flaming light around him seemed to give him wings as if he were an angel.
The fire on his sword shrieked as he slashed forward, dismembering the zombies caught in the striking range of his sword. Fire consumed the zombies even touched by the edges of the fiery aura around his blade, burning them to ashes and charred bones. Fear showed in their undead faces, as they attempted to flee, leaving the prince alone, but the new swordsman, blazing with the flames of retribution, pursued them to the last.
Once the last of the unholy mob was annihilated, the swordsman picked up Bröas’s sword, and flung it at him—the Prince caught it, and from the roughness of the swordsman’s actions, he sensed rage from the other.
“Do you wish to die, princeling?” The swordsman’s voice was aged, but not decrepit, he was grizzled and tough as aged leather, crafted into a magnificent strap for breaking young steeds.
“I wish to find my father!” the Prince did not take well to the insult, or the cavalier words the stranger spoke to his royal status. However he was hoping to gain some respect from his savior, who carried about him a fatherly authority that he missed from his own.
“If he is here, he isn’t your father anymore, not truly.” The fiery light around the swordsman dimmed, and only a faint aura lit the darkness about him. Pulling back his hood, the prince was shocked to see the man was a half-breed. One ear round as a human, the other pointed as a erlkin, the accursed elf race.
Aged till his hair was whiter than snow on a skeleton, the stranger had many scars that cut deep into his skin, one deeper than the rest ran from the top of his head down to the base. The scar split his face in two, one for the elf side, the other human.
“I still must find my father.” the prince said after finding his words. “Could you guide me on the way? I will pay handsomely for your service.”
“I am not a sell sword!” the swordsman’s words were crossed, he flashed his jagged fangs as if he were some feral beast backed into a corner.
“Then are you a good samaritan? And if so, can I rely on your generosity till I get to Crèche Of Filth?” Bröas words made the swordsman show an angry face, as he speedily approached the prince, pinning him to the wall with only one arm.
Immobilized by intimidation and a near crushing pain from the swordsman’s grip, the prince was helpless but to hear the sharp words spoken in his ear.
“Speak that name no more, or any other profane things in this place. This is the domain of Cancer, the ilk of that foul faith can hear it spoken. Speak it again, and I will have to kill you, less you spread it to the world above.” releasing the prince, the swordsman watched as the young man fell to the ground, clutching his neck, trying to gain a steady access of air.
“Please…I must find my father…I must—” the prince’s eyes were that of a needy child, begging an adult for some comfort and security. “—even if you don’t help, I must go on alone then.”
“You will die.” the swordsman betrayed a glint of worry on his face.
“Then I shall.” Bröas straightened himself, before he started out into the darkness, pulling free his sword to light the way. Before he got too far away, the swordsman firmly grabbed his shoulder and forced his sword back into its sheath.
“Keep your sword in its sheath, the labyrinth’s inhabitants are drawn to light that doesn’t repel them.”
The prince obeyed, as he was assured the swordsman would travel with him, as he searched for his father. “Does your light?”
“My light—” the swordsman took on a serene look upon his scarred face. “—is the light of Christ.”
***
As both prince and swordsman moved throughout the darkness of the labyrinth, the prince and swordsman exchanged introductions.
“I am prince Bröas Allaphonze, of the lands of Ilyren.”
“I recognized the smell of royalty, even days without hot water baths, those oils still leave their womanly scent on you.” the prince clenched his fists, in frustration on hearing the swordsman's words. He wanted to brag about his own accomplishments as a warrior, but knew he’d still be at the stranger’s mercy for his ability to harm the labyrinth's denizens. “You may call me Fenroth.”
“Fenroth? What kind of name is that?” The prince never heard of such a foreign name, even from neighboring lands.
“It is a name, and that is all you need to know.” The two of them were quiet for some time, as they moved through the dark.
Faces of grotesque creatures, worse than zombies could be seen on the edge of Fenroth’s light, as soon as the light touched them, they seemed stunned, then retreated into comforting darkness.
“How do you create such light, even without a talisman?” Bröas had never seen such power before, even by the court magician.
“It isn’t my light, it is the light of Christ, who blesses me, even in these defiled depths.” Bröas like all in his royal lineage were brought up in the faith of the Bloody Christ, the messiah who is anointed by the Almighty. However seeing such displays of divine blessings, had him both envious and curious as to why he has seen no other member of the faith become so blessed.
Before he could ask more, he saw that the edge of the cistern had reached the end of the Bloody Christ Insidium, and was now at the beginning of a bridge. Heat and cold mingled in the air, and just then, Bröas could smell the molten lead rising up into the stale chill.
Stepping onto the bridge first, Fenroth gestured for the prince to stay back, as he made sure it was sure. Every stone he examined as he crossed back and forth on the length of rock. It was no longer than twenty or so feet, and despite feeling no presence of evil, the illuminated swordsman knew the bridge was being watched.
Below the bridge was a steep trench, where a river of molten lead flowed along the underground tunnels that spread all over the underground complex.
“Be warned, the place you seek is beyond the bridge, and once you step on the other side, you will likely die. Return the way you came, forget this place, if your father came here, it is because Cancer seduced the darkness in his heart.”
“My father was…is King, he served with honor and is loved by his people. If he came down here it was for good reason. I would go to the pits of Hell to find him!”
“This is Hell!” a yowling voice said, and from above the expansive ceiling descended a creature neither monster nor beast. Having the face of a man, the torso of a great bird of prey, talons that curved on paws covered in scales of stone, it was a being thought to be purely myth, the Saurgon.
A demi-gӧr, a man-fiend of the primordial era of Ur-Earth. A being of Cancer’s brood, it has been the subject of the downfall of many heroes of the past. As part of myth as the origin of the world, and the dwarf kingdom, it is often retold that the Saurgon led the other demi-gӧr in the Great Sundering.
“Come to me prince, and embrace true eternity!”
Screaming out in pure terror, the eyes of the fiend rendered him mute, and caused him to lose all strength in his legs. However before the talons could touch the prince, Fenroth with sword in hand, carved deep into the Saurgon’s back.
A flow of oily black ichor leaked from the wound.
“Try a real man, you cretin of the devil!” The talons tried to snatch up the swordsman, but he leapt back, and returned with a slash that chipped its talons. “I am a warrior for the Almighty, embraced by Christ! Perish by the flames of The Sword!”
An awesome flame enveloped Fenroth as an aura of light lit up the darkness, casting aside the Cancerous shadows. The Saurgon flinched at being touched by the light, but it was not going to retreat, steeling itself, it pounced at the swordsman, and they became embraced in a devastating duel that would lead to the others or both utter destruction.
No ground was sacrificed, no strike was not returned tenfold, the fighting became so fierce it sent a fissure across the nearly indestructible stonework of the labyrinth. Rocks fell from the ceiling, and a quack shook the underground complex, even shaking the water the Gohgt waited upon for the prince to return.
As the prince recovered enough to get on his feet, he was still nearly petrified from seeing such a ghastly looking horror. Looking on the path ahead, still drenched in darkness Bröas was tempted to retreat, but he was compelled forward, as if he could feel the presence of his father, just beyond the curtain of shadow.
Holding his breath, he closed his eyes and sped across the bridge, feeling the pressure of the swordsman duel with the demi-gӧr. Before he could take in the nearly overwhelming sensation he felt wrack his spirit, he was beyond the bridge, and enveloped into the Crèche Of Filth.
***
Vanishing into a chamber of dangling spider silk curtains, floors of shallow tiles, and walls covered in curved blades, there was sparse light in the chamber. Scorches on the walls were lit with an eerie blue flame, and the smell was dusty and moist in the air.
Bröas tasted something bitter in the air, it was familiar yet he knew he should want it in his mouth, it was a source of disease, but he still couldn’t think of its name. Walking onward, he looked and stopped, drawing his sword and casting a blue light on the creatures that were in that chamber.
Hunched over, decrepit crones who had a sullen look upon their faces. Sorrow filled their black eyes as they looked down on empty cradles, their tattered dresses worn from age and filth.
“Do not interfere or I will strike you with all my might!” The prince’s words did not change the solemn atmosphere. The women were sadly looking at the empty cribs, as if something precious was once kept there, but had been taken from them.
Lamenting an eternal loss, the women did not even have the will to cry out in despair, they had been left long empty of life giving powers, and were left hollow and alone.
“No, don't take him!” cried a female voice. It was a younger woman’s voice, eager to save a damsel he rushed off, through the chamber, into an adjacent hall.
Once he stepped through an archway that the chamber seemed to lead into he felt water slosh around his boots. A few inches of water were on the floor in that hall, and as he turned a corner he saw before a gigantic dais rising from a lake that seemed to be outside.
The sky above was empty except for a black moon that shone down a cringing blue light that bathed everything in crystal clear illumination. A bridge that was submerged a few inches deep in the massive lake bridged the gap between the entryway and dais.
Standing on the platform was a young woman, she was on her knees, begging a man, holding his legs, trying to dissuade him from a villainous deed. Raised over the lake was a newborn child, the blood of birth still stuck to the newborn as he cried out for his mother’s love.
The man holding the baby over the water, Prince Bröas recognized his father, King Aklandis Allaphonze, wearing his armor which had been tarnished by black oil. A face of more corpse than man, the King had aged terribly as if he had lived decades of his life in his relatively short time away.
“Father! What evil has possessed you!” The voice of his son didn’t do anything to dissuade King Aklandis from offering tribute to Cancer.
Dropping the baby in the water, the infant sank instantly, vanished without a ripple in the water, becoming utterly enveloped by the black waters.
“My baby!” crying out in denial, the mother tried to search for her child under or floating in the water, but nothing could be seen. The bottomless depths have claimed her cradle of love, and left her with an ache in her womb, and a deep fissure in his heart. Whaling her grief she received no comfort from Aklandis who cast her aside. Throwing her from the dais she hit the water hard as if it was concrete.
The water didn’t envelop her, instead she just lay there still, she was dead.
“Father you bastard! What evil has taken possession of you!” Prince Bröas wanted to deny the evil he witnessed, but couldn’t deny the heart wrenching sin he witnessed.
“Time!” King Aklandis spoke it as if it were a curse that dogged him for all his life. “Time has taken my youth, vitality, and will take my mind, as it did my father. As he grew to my age he was so demented from sickness of the brain, he was put to the sword, by my hand! It is a tradition in our house that the eldest son of the Aklandis home must slay his father, when madness sets in…you have come to fulfill that have you?!”
It was then the prince realized why his father left and why the court was keeping it so secret. His father was showing signs of mental decline into a rabid old fool, and to spare Bröas having to kill his own father, he fled to the once place he could not return from, the Stagnant Labyrinth.
Sorrow and regret filled the prince’s eyes as he started to shed tears of realizing his burden. “Father, I must do this.” Drawing his sword, the blue light it cast reflected off the water, and cast a sapphire shadow for miles across the lake’s surface. “Come father, let me embrace you one last time.”
Crossing the partially sunken bridge, the prince had a boyish sorrow on his face, which grew deeper, as his mouth and eyes sagged seeing his father overcome with madness went to hide from his son. Afraid of what was to come, it was clear the once proud warrior king Aklandis was no more, now he was a craven heathen who needed his soul free from the chains of a rotten brain.
Climbing the stairs of the dais, Prince Bröas nearly fell into the water when a stone block was dropped on him from above. The King had resorted to a cowardly attack to keep the sword of the sword from being met. Keeping his feet firm, Bröas continued upward, till he stood on the same level as his father.
Switching between cringing in fright, and cussing out bravado, he was a wretched thing, not the patriarch he had loved and admired.
“You cowardly man cunt! You are no son of mine!” the King hurled such harsh words at his son, it wounded the prince deeply, even if he knew they weren’t the words of a sane man. Approaching him, it was clear it needed to be done, one clean stab of the sword and it would be over. “Son! Don’t, stop—” before he could say anymore pleas, Atöria stuck through a gap in the king’s plate armor, piercing his heart, draining him of the vitality of life. “—this will happen to you! Bröas I curse you to come down here, and die, just as I have done to my father…so shall you…suffer…this curse…” life left King Aklandis, and whether his soul was taken into heaven from that deep Hell, the prince left that up to the angels to decide.
Dragging his father from the dais, he started to carry him from the bridge, hoping to give him a decent burial in the family crypt. However as soon as the prince stood on the bridge, a large hand rose from the water, it was gnarled, and had claws of a demon.
Before Bröas could recover from being fear struck, the hand ripped the dead body of Aklandis from his son, and before the prince could call out, the hand returned to the depths of the lake with the king.
“Father!” the Prince’s words echoed across the lake. “May the Almighty bring your soul peace!”
***
Prince Bröas left the Crèche Of Filth, finding the bridge was in terrible shape, but still standing. Fenroth and the Saurgon were nowhere to be seen. However he felt the vibrations of their fight continuing to send tremors through the rock. Praying the swordsman will prevail or at least survive the fight, the prince continued to go back to the ferryman, eager to return to the surface.
Crossing the bridge, and running through the cistern, the prince’s blue light from his sword drew more zombies out of the darkness. However he was quick footed, and outpaced them up to the Altar Of The Niger Christ.
Prince Bröas recollected the prophetic words he heard when he passed the statue, thinking its meaning would become clearer to him the further he would leave the altar in the past. Seeing Gohgt kept his word, the prince climbed aboard just as the zombies were drawing nearer.
“Take me to the nearest exit.” obliging the ferryman did as the prince bid, as he sheathed his blade again, he watched as the haunting light of the altar steadily vanished in the distance.
***
The ferryman docked at the bottom of a stairs leading to an open gateway that natural daylight streamed through.
“I remember your father had just as much trouble with your grandfather when he went after his father, just as much as his father did with his father.” Gohgt reminiscing had a coldness to it, that was meant to be a warning of a dire prophecy. “Don’t come back, don’t let Cancer take you.” The skeletal hand of the ferryman gripped the prince’s arm.
A feeling of frostbite ran down his arm, which he pulled away, recoiled by the deathly chill he felt stinging his flesh.
“You could’ve warned me.” The prince felt as if Gohgt was playing a sadistic game with him.
“You princes never believe me, but I pray you’ll be different, no go and don’t return.”
The prince did as he was told, he climbed the stairs and left the labyrinth through the gateway. He found himself blinded by daylight and the way back into the Stagnant Labyrinth was sealed up by some enchantment he didn’t understand.
In the distance he saw his castle, but he wouldn’t return. Not with the curse on his head, he would leave the crown to his brother, and would instead roam the lands, searching for a way to end the curse that had taken his father.
Taken on a name not his own, he sold off his princely effects, to a traveling merchant group, where he bought durable traveling garb and gear. Keeping his sword he left his homeland, leaving many to believe that Prince Bröas died in the pursuit of his father.
Believing both had been taken by the darkness of the Stagnant Labyrinth.