Crossing over disorients Tarkalor. It always does; it always will. Sensations rush through his meat and bone like union with a lover, like singing with a father, like chanting with a crowd. His skin is blue, fingernails orange, and his shock of white hair jolts against the wind. This is always Tarkalor, except when it isn’t, and there is no isn’t. Tarkalor touches the thick bullshide belt around his waist. The sensations recede. They war against his mind-body’s call.
Tarkalor breaths in.
The sky is nearly black. Clouds low and dark swarm through the air above Tarkalor. Where they strike the Stormwalk Mountains lightning flashes, then flies away beyond the clouds. Lightning is born to live, even more than gods or man. Each time a cloud assaults the mountain the lightning is born. The mountain peak thrusts into the air. The spear-land drives skyward the clouds. They retreat to the Middle Air.
The hills of Ernaldela roll beyond sight on Tarkalor’s left and Tarkalor’s right. Their green expanse fills the Dreamworld. Where vision grows murky Tarkalor sees the Cow Goddess’s shoulder rise. Her vast shape lowers to her mother’s body, and eats her mother’s flesh. She doesn’t eat. She opens her mouth to eat. She doesn’t eat. She moos. There is water under her hoof. Her mother’s body is stolen, lost. The Cow Goddess is distressed.
Tarkalor breathes out. Tarkalor steps forward with his right foot.
The sensations are inside his mind-body. They blur like the wet paint children throws. Tarkalor touches the cold hilt of his Death. It is his father, it is carved from his father, it was carved by his father. Tarkalor pulls Death free of its mask. The Dreamworld is sharp. Straight black lines draws themselves. The Cow Goddess is smaller. Tarkalor comprehends her. She moos. Water froths under her hooves. Green-scaled people pluck the long hairs from the tip of her tail. They braid her hairs together. They make a rope, and they tie it around the Cow Goddess’s clean white horn.
Tarkalor wields Death. The sword-point draws a new black line. Tarkalor’s bicep flexes. His breath moves the line. He cuts the rope. The Cow Goddess moos. Tarkalor has tusks, beautiful long white tusks. They push down his lower lip. Tarkalor’s teeth are sharp and black. He howls. Tarkalor’s breath drives forward, thrusting Death at the green-scaled people.
Now, he thought. Do it now!
Tarkalor’s hand stops. He breathes out. Tarkalor closes his eyes.
I am here to kill Strife, not give it birth. The pressure on Tarkalor’s mind-body changed. When he opened his eyes the black lines were gone. He stood in front of a cow. His hand rested on her black rump. The fur prickled his palm. A loose rope dangled from the cow’s horn, the severed half held by a scaly merman with legs, instead of a tail. Tarkalor’s hair droops, brushing the back of his neck.
Above the brooding clouds is broiling.
The merman’s shape warbles, and then the black lines resolved. He glared at Tarkalor. “Return my prize, Storm Lord,” he said, “lest you wish to feel my masterful trident puncture your word-winds!”
Tarkalor adjusting his grip on the sword. His legs ached, as though he had walked several days without rest. “Your people hunger in the dark?” he said.
“What could you know of hunger?” said the merman. “You live in the goddess’s lands, off the goddess’s bounty.”
“I know there’s less to eat, despite our blessings,” said Tarkalor. He took hold of the rope on the cow, and gently tugged its head toward him. “Shall we strive together, to survive as brothers rather than enemies?” Tarkalor breathes in.
Tarkalor lifts Death, and the Cow Goddess moos. The green-scaled people encircle Tarkalor. Tarkalor wields Death, and gives birth to a river. The river is crimson and her waters are thick like promises or tears. The river swallows the Cow Goddess. It mingles with the blue waters. Their froth births people with green skin and no scales. Tarkalor’s skin is green, fingernails blue, and his black hair is tied in a tight, wet braid. Thunder shakes the Dreamworld. Tarkalor sits beside his brother. They are always brothers. They tear flesh from the river of blood, and their bellies are full.
Tarkalor breathes out.
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This week’s post explores what heroquesting is like in Glorantha, subjectively. It’s also an attempt to imagine what it might feel like to try changing a traditional myth. After all, it’s experience of the God World which has primacy—not a priestly canon of dry texts. By changing the story, adventurers can change the world.
Until next time, then!
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