“Our Father goes by many names”, the priest says and he gestures them to walk towards him. “My people were the first to be born from his immortal energy. We called him the Dread Crown. The shadows his horns cast down made his enemies tremble with fear. We, the tharei, are made in his image. Now that I’m old, I no longer strike fear into the hearts of those who oppose my Father. I am of no use anymore on the battlefield. My place is by his side, in the holiest of places.”
Even though tharei is the name of a race that doesn’t need translation, they understand what it means: the crownhorned.
As they come closer, they can see where the purple glow is coming from. Beside the high priest they see the statue of a head, a giant one. The thick fog comes out of the back of his gaping maw and slithers between its stalagmite-like teeth. The upper part of the head is made of smaller skulls, some bigger than others. Just below some of the empty eye sockets are purple crystals, shaped like tears. Their glow casts a shadow behind the statue, a terrifying one, from where the name Dread Crown obviously is derived from. Its antler horns reach from the statue to the temple’s walls and ceiling.
“He is also called the Howling Horror and the Purple Wail. Legend says his offspring is born from the tears he bleeds. The scriptures say his blood is purple and so his tears are as well. Sometimes, a tear doesn’t bring forth a demon. The dozen of crystals you see embedded in this altar are filled with his essence and come closest to his divine presence here on Abaddon.”
Dargothoth takes a step forward, ignoring the itchy feel he gets from the statue’s glow on his skin.
“We are here for a mission, not for a mass”, he says.
He has the same hiss in his voice as the high priest, only in a deeper, more growling way.
“What do we have to offer to receive the blessing and be on our way?”
Sa’arlach wraps his hands around his own neck. His vertebrae make unsettling cracking sounds. Normally, when they hear something as loud as this, they would assume someone’s neck is being broken. However, the preacher looks fine.
“So impatient”, he whispers.
He waves his hand through the fog and moves it upwards. The smoke hides his face.
“Fear is in all of us. Fear controls our life in every stage. The baby fears his mother will not come back after leaving the room. The toddler fears the dark. The youngling fears death. The adolescents fear rejection. The adults - well - they fear everything: poverty, loneliness, a loveless life, the loss of family. We fear others and others fear us, and to be feared is to be felt. You rush through their veins, make their hearts pound faster and take their breath away.”
Again, Dargothoth steps towards him, shaking his head.
“Stop preaching, high priest. What does Gor-Thar want from us?”
Sa’arlach stops talking and clenches his jaw. He folds his hands together.
“He wants you to fear him.”
He smiles, an unsettling sight for the five adventurers.
“Back in my world”, Mero says, “almost everyone fears at least a few gods. I don’t see why it would be different here in Abaddon. I think I fear him.”
The high priest shakes his head.
“No, saying it is not enough. You have to feel it, only that will be sufficient.”
“And how should we do that?”
Bruq scratches his back and shakes his shoulders. He can’t get rid of that shivering feeling he got when he entered the temple.
“Don’t you worry about that”, Sa’arlach says with a sadistic smile on his face. “My apprentice has some very helpful skills to help you face your deepest fears. Please, follow me.”
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