For as long as Hirem could remember, he had struggled with the idea of becoming a priest of Yahal.
It had all started with his name. Hirem, from the tents of Alachi, of the sons of Rapa. An undeniable, powerful connection to the priesthood of Yahal - the Rapas of Yahebah - had been within his blood from the very first day that he was born, from the first moment that his eyes had opened to the sight of the world's wonders. At an early age, he remembered listening in rapt attention to the stories that his father and mother would share about the wandering Rapas and their struggles. But even better than the stories were the guardian figures themselves, whose arrivals always coincided with a string of good luck for the nomadic Tent. These are not just men! Hirem remembered himself thinking, back in those innocent days of his youth. These are souls that have been pledged to Yahal... their belief in him makes them wiser and stronger and a thousand times greater than anybody else in the world! They're not men, they're... they're something better! The boy loved the Rapas and their constant visits, for they always brought joy to his home; the Rapas were friends and teachers, counsellors and grandfathers, they served all roles and chose none.
Just nine years ago, Hirem had been on the cusp of becoming a Rapa himself. Four years of devoted study to the faith, countless memorized prayers and rituals and sayings, intense personal devotion to Yahal... all of that effort might have allowed him to don the title for himself, had he not decided at the last minute that the path was not for him. To this day, Hirem still could not decide whether it was Yahal's intervention or his own blind stupidity that drove him out into the desert that fateful morning, not to return to his home for another three years. I doubt that Yahal intended for me to leave my entire life behind in Yahebah for some foolish cause of revenge and self-delusion. If I had just made a different decision that day, my fate might have been changed for the better... I must trust in my teacher, that this is the path that he meant for me to have. Regardless of the grand scheme that was governing his decisions, the fact remained that Hirem turned his back, seemingly forever, on becoming a Rapa when he left Yahebah at 21.
Until now.
For some reason, he had felt strangely rejuvenated by the time that he returned to his room after work, his body fighting off exhaustion easily and embracing a curious sense of... exuberance. The Benshiran, incredibly, started unconsciously smiling as he tidied up his things in the inn room, sorting away his old clothes and rucksack and supplies, his face lit up with brightness and hope. His gaze had, by chance, shifted to his small bundle of Penita scrolls... grinning widely, Hirem had suddenly found himself tucking the scrolls under his arm, dousing the candle on his desk, and closing the door to his room. Before he could realize what was happening, the Benshiran had already left Atri's Place, head down to the lowest tier of Riverfall, and positioned himself neatly on the busy docks, just some ways off from the famous Kulkukan Tavern. It was only when he started mounting a small tower of boxes that Hirem understood what was compelling him.
Blind idiocy, of course.
Unless this is Yahal's work.
And he isn't that cruel a god.
Feeling self-conscious immediately after stepping atop the boxes, he let the chill sea wind wash over his large form and reduce him to shivering. His bright eyes were glancing in all directions for signs of... he supposed, hopeful converts. Riverfall's docks often found themselves growing busier at nightfall, and tonight was no exception; the low tier were bustling with activity, from both native Rivarians and recently arrived sailors. A throng of people were constantly moving on the docks, carrying packages and other cargo from one ship to the other, occasionally giving Hirem a glance... occasionally. Towering overhead was the cliff-bound city of Riverfall, hulking above the shore of the Suvan like a self-obsessed parent casting their judgmental eye upon an unruly child. As just one part of this incredibly lively city community, Hirem felt terribly small then, and completely ill-suited for the task of delivering sermons. I know my faith and I am assured of the strength of my belief... but to try and introduce that same belief to others, who might worship other gods or consider the entire divine realm forsaken ground? The thought thoroughly intimidated him.
But, at the same time, another internal feeling galvanized him. If nothing else, I was brought here for a reason. My long travel from Yahebah, starting on that fateful day nine years ago, has led me here... to these docks, on this stack of boxes, with these people as my audience. The very least that I can do is to show some appreciation to Yahal for what he was given me. Feeling his resolve strengthen and his legs be bolstered from underneath him, the Benshiran took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he felt that he was ready to begin, he unrolled a random Penita scroll, held it tightly in his grasp, and started to speak.
"Falim, friends!" He announced to no one in particular, trying to push his heavily accented voice over the din of the crowd and be heard by all. From the looks that the Rivarians were giving him, it was clear that he had at least some success. "My name is Hirem... I have come to bring you tidings of Yahal's will." Seeing that some in the crowd were already beginning to roll their eyes and stamp irritably from foot to foot, the Benshiran quickly shook his head and tried to smile towards them. "By all means, keep on walking if you have no interest in hearing. My words may take root another time, if you permit it." At this, half of the people in the crowd immediately began to resume their paused trips, followed quickly by the other half. In only a few seconds, the still crowd that Hirem had been addressing transformed once more into a raging river at his hip, stopping for none and caring little for his words.
Disheartened but still determined to speak, Hirem cast his eyes down and focused upon the Shiber text written in his Penita scroll. "From the summer of the Locust:" he exclaimed, making sure to hold onto his scroll tightly. "There once lived a farmer named Nizam, whose fields were often prey to sickness, disease, and - " He was forced to stop upon encountering a word in Shiber that couldn't translate effectively to Common, and cleared his throat to avoid addressing the error. "Every day, Nizam would kneel down before his many-faced altar and offer a hundred different prayers to the different gods of his family. He prayed for healthy harvests, for long summers, and for cold winters. His gods, however, were not gods that governed moral disciplines... they were depraved pleasure-seekers obsessed with nothing but their own celestial affairs. They were gods that he admired, gods of wine and song and combat and greed, gods that he strove to live up to. None answered his begging."
"Finally, despairing of salvation, Nizam offered one more prayer to the god of his forefathers, and their fathers before them... Yahal. And, before Nizam could blink, Yahal appeared before him, waving his golden sword at Nizam's fields and filling them with life. Nizam was very, very happy, but Yahal told him that a price needed to be paid for this intervention. Swear to half of your gods tomorrow, he asked, as well as to me. In doing so, you will save your crops and your family. Nizam agreed enthusiastically, and on the next day only offered prayers to half of his usual gods. Again Yahal appeared upon being summoned, raising the sun in the sky and summoning a cool wind to refresh Nizam after a long day of work. And again, Yahal demanded something of the farmer... Swear to half of your gods tomorrow, and also to me. And, once again triumphant, Nizam agreed happily."
"Days passed, and Nizam continued to strike some gods out of his nightly prayers, denying some out of his life while simply ignoring the rest. But soon he began to feel restless about abandoning his many pleasure divinities, and stopped listening to Yahal when the god asked him to swear to less and yet less. Eventually, Nizam began to add gods back into the nightly prayers, restoring the list back to its original length... and, just like back in the old days, Nizam stopped offering prayers to Yahal. Furious at this betrayal, Yahal cursed Nizam's fields to forever lay barren, incensed that the man had abandoned faith in him so soon after being rescued from ruin. Don't you understand? He demanded of the foolish old man. I asked for your faith, but instead you cling to the countless gods that have done you wrong time and time again. And so it was that Yahal forever excluded Nizam from receiving his divine grace, leaving the farmer to die alone a few years later."
Sensing that the story didn't have much impact on the local Rivarians, Hirem nonetheless grit his teeth and continued on to the next. He wasn't going to be satisfied tonight until at least one person had grown intrigued by his sermon. And if they do become intrigued, and wish to learn more... I suppose that I will have to guide them.
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