Transcript of The jackal's torch
Once, long ago, three mortals were led through the land of the dead. They travelled together on the dismal roads of the Grim Underworld.
The Devourer's beasts were not to be seen back then, but the Underworld was still a treacherous place: souls were lost in mist, and impossible whispers lead them astray to places even the gods knew not. But worst of all was the darkness. More than anything, the Grim Underworld was a dark place, where the Sun's light could never reach. But in his stead was his son. The guide and protector. The wanderer in darkness. Icthlarin, god of the dead.
Icthlarin blindly led the party of three through the darkness, relying on scent alone. The only light by which to see was the glow from their spirits - enough only to not stumble and fall.
At last, they came to a passageway, and Icthlarin turned to the first of the three and said: 'This is your port of call. Through here is music and peace everlasting. You will want for nothing. Now go, for my endless task continues and there are more souls to guide.'
And so, the first of the three bowed graciously and passed on. After a journey through mist, they came to yet another passageway. Icthlarin turned this time to the second of the three and said: 'This is your port of call. Through here is discord and war everlasting. You will always want more. Now go, for my endless task continues and there are more souls to guide.'
And so, the second of the three bowed respectfully and passed on.
Then Icthlarin walked in silence. He stopped at every crossroads and crossing, every path and passageway, but still he walked. At last, he turned to the third and asked: 'Where is your port of call? I can find no place for you in all the Underworld. Your scent is on no hall.'
The last of three replied: 'My place is with you. You outshine your father and all else above. Service, not rest, is my reward.'
The god grew silent then and knew not what to say. They walked longer through mist until at last Icthlarin said, his back turned: 'You know not of what you speak. I have no port of call, no halls to call my own. My life is spent in in-betweens; my task is never done. No, my father's field, that is best for you.'
Yet the mortal was persistent: 'I care not for your father's field nor any other hall! I need no port of call!'
And Icthlarin was angered by their insolence: 'What aid can you give me? Your spirit is dim and has not even the brittle strength of bones.'
The third answered: 'The light of my spirit may be dim, but it is better than darkness.'
The god considered: 'It is a lonely path. You will meet many, but they will all pass you by.'
And the third smiled: 'The better to share it.'
Icthlarin grew silent once more, but then he turned to the cave wall. He tore free one of the roots of the world and extended it to his mortal companion and said: 'Come then, for our endless task continues, and there are more souls to guide.'
And with the third's touch, their spirit became the first ember and lit the root's end. It was a beginning. Since then, Icthlarin has never wandered alone, for all those who serve him are wanderers in darkness too. They are the light in the jackal's torch.