[Pact] THE DEBT OF NAMES

[Shaman 244]

[One of the many figures and forms Bugduga'Dhaar has taken]

The Debt Of Names

Echoes escaped from the depths beneath Ghorazad’s foundations - the faint sound of hammering, not heard so much as felt in the stones beneath the square. Down there, deep within the bowels of the city, an orc set stonework against a wall, and crafted a ledger out of numerous names.

There were many of them, and each held a story within their own meaning, thought lost to time. Warriors and wisemen who had built the war-nation up in ways that no shaman bothered to document. Brothers fell in battle, in torment, in squalor, and in fear,, in the long slow attrition of years that swallowed the longest lived amongst us. The shaman believed that they were never remembered properly. Never offered reverence. Never honored in the Stargush’Stroh.

And that was sin.
One step further from Krug.

 

Zag did not come to Bugduga’Dhaar as he did his first master - the spirit of jungles and overgrowth - with wide eyes and open palms. The farseer came bearing scars earned in servitude to the jungle-wilds; a shaman-seasoned through tooth and claw, weathered by the green and left hungry by the rot.
 

The shaman knew well what the shadow of the spirit war does to history.

 

Within the confines of the jungle-wilds, remembrance is not a shrine to pray at. It is a grave. Earthquakes topple cities, rivers carve mountains, hurricanes spread the jungles seeds. Overgrowth is mercy only because it is honest - the world stating very plainly: “All things return to me.”

The immortality of the written word is fleeting, at best, but the stones preserved knowledge in ways scrolls could never achieve. Scrolls burn as quick as thatch. Tongues change with the wind. Yet the stone  - the stone is stubborn.

So the orc chose stubbornness.

With each strike of the shaman’s chisel, another name was ripped from the depths of the Stargush’Stroh, and forced back into the recollection of the living - resurrected as fact, not spectre. Anchored to the Second Age.

 

Chk - Chk  - Chk

Each impact sent reverberations across the guttural space - the stink of wrought iron and old viscera filled the air. Fragments gathered along the scars on his knuckles, embedding themselves in his skin, giving new pain to old wounds. The shaman’s hands ached, but he welcomed the sensation - the pain only strengthened the resolve in his labors.

 

Zag exhaled slowly and placed his palm against the wall, feeling the protrusions bite into his skin. He spoke one of the names aloud, but this time, it did not vanish into the depths of the chamber. The silence enveloping the expanse was not empty. It was received by something, lurking beyond the stones, in the recesses of his perception.
 

“Lat grush gund zash gotlub?”

The entity mocked the shaman.

“Lat krimp ghashan’rim zash asht, agh bugn gashnum hûr. Mirz, dushatâbug ghashan zaug… agh bugh znûg?”
 

 The question was a trap. Zag froze as he thought of ways around it.

He had come to bargain for something, but the Spirits never divulge their secrets cheaply.

“Nar gotlûm gund-ishi." 
“Gadûd-izg bugudri, dhurz mazauk-hai nariin bugh-izubu. Mazauk-hai nariin bugh, ziimarum-dum Ilzgûl nar gakh-at.”
The orc drew a slow, deep breath.

“Gadûd-izg dhurz bugudri tur narash, ghung stargûsh nûkhud nariin-ut.”

"Hon ghashanum gakhûrz.
Ûzizg ghashanum lat garr.

Lat ska'at nar bagûrz.
Lat ska'at grazaadh'ug naakhlab, agh gît'h Motsham sûmlab.

Lat nargzab bugudri.
Lat nargzab dhaarri.
Lat nargzab gothûrzum, dushûrz ghashan'izg, bot da'ash.

Amat?"

 

The shaman told it plainly, “Kranklûk agh' kranklûb'izubu kûzaarsh nariin Krug agh' stargûshri thlûnthil. Gûg-zaarsh shrarim gûlri kul. Goi-izubu'ishi gûlri"

The shaman looked into the dark, staring into an abyss beyond the sanctity of candlelight.
“Krul aarsh'ishi, amukh uruk mat, mat krul. Nokh ghaash agh shapatirzi, agh nokh shau agh nariinum.”

 

"Za ukh-ub bugdugga.
Bugud gank kul.
Dhaar gaium kul.

Krimpizg latû. Nar ghashn gatarz urzkû.
Nar fauthizg lak it.
Nar brogbizg bhûl nar nariinum.

Amukh bugdlat bugud mumuga frûmizgir, Yar, paash krimp urdan.

Mut bugudri lat ukhûrkub tûr nariinum nûl, dushatâr?"
 

That was the cost levied by the Spirit. Not blood. Not Tomes. Not Trinkets. A condition of servitude. The haruspex stared at the wall of names, unknowing of the whole truth behind the lives made into letters. Zag reached in the satchel strewn to his side, and produced a free small token: a charm, drilled through, wrought of animal bone, and stained dark from years of handling. This was the shaman’s own signature mark, the first he had ever carved when he learned to speak Old Blah and step into the immortal plane.

He placed it at the base of the shrine.
The engravings on the rockface writhed with unknown stories.

“Zag wyll bi’ latz witnezz.”

The shaman swore himself.

The air within the chamber tightened, like vines drawing a noose.
The Yar's throat closed. He tasted blood.  His ears filled with half heard syllables, names spoken by dead rexes, titles that have yet to be granted but have always been true.

"Krimpuga latû, dushatâr.
Iin, bugud, agh goth bugud.

Kraiut rad ghashnuz.
Kraiut orskuga.
Kraiut fûruga.

Agh ghashn-at bugud gratumob
Nar sûm kraat.

Gundat.

Kol-at za, dushatâr.
Bugud kaan krimp shara…
Runkat sharataul.”

When Zag returned, he found himself knelt, palm still pressed to the wall. The names he had etched were no longer carved. They were accounted for in the grand workings of Bugduga’Dhaar, and so was he.


 

Spoiler

Zag'Yar reaches out to the domain of Kotrestruu, and invokes one of his lessers, Bugduga'Dhaar, the spirit of names and titles. Following an exchange, the Yar is extended a pact, and becomes another pawn in the servant's court.