The False Prophet

The overhead buzz of the copper light bulbs starts to drill into Bross's head as he is barely able to focus on his paperwork. The small chairs barely fit his large stature. His grandfather once recounted to him the once great race of orcs that once ruled the plains of the south. Now here Bross was hundreds of years later: a musty, barely lit office space with only half an hour to complete his paper work. His boss, a gnomish man half his size, got on his ass for being a few minutes late to work. How was he supposed to know the royal guard would be searching the tram tunnels for felons? Bross clenched his fist as he heard the shift bell ring, almost breaking his pen. He was tired, he was annoyed, and Bross just wanted to go back to his apartment already. This stuffy suit was driving him up the wall. With a visible tension, Bross stomped out the room, each step making the room shutter as his coworkers looked over in frustration. A scowl kept everyone out of his way as he stepped down the street, each and every sound of the city only worsening his mood.

The leaders of this place never improving the local infrastructure led to cracks in walk ways, trash littering the ground, and the stench of the sewers creeping up from the sidewalks. The distant clicking of faulty streetlights mixes with the chatter of passers by. The grandeur and architecture of the tram station only hides the true filth in this city's roots. On time like everyday, Bross hobbles through the archways of the station, making his way to his daily tram. As if expecting his arrival, a well dressed man blocks the way to his tram, declaring to all nearby folk that:

"This transport is now unavailable to all riders due to a search by the royal guard. Felons and thieves have been seen in this area and the ballisters' decree is to prevent their escape via the tunnels. We apologize for the inconvenience."

Cursing everything, Bross freezes, frustration and anger making him consider many actions but never acting. He stomps here and there before settling in front of the back of the station. Many different kinds of folk can be seen milling about, though few of them savory. Bross passes the homeless, the beggars, and the loons. Another failure of the ballisters, in Bross's eyes. He tries to focus on how he may get home before his stories come on the crystal set when a voice rings through his head. The orc looks over to see an elven child, no older than 20, standing on an old crate, preaching some nonsense to those around them. Seeing as Bross had time to burn, he watched and listened from afar.

The child was clothed in stitched paladins outfits, reminiscent of the chapel guards. Though his stark white cloak contrasted the dark corner of the station and darker people who wander here. The child had an impressive voice for their thin stature, able to project out loudly with the skill of a spokesman. They use their arms to accentuate their points. Occasionally, they look into the alley backing them, searching for something in the dark, before continuing their speech. Seeing Bross's interest as he approached, the child faltered before restarting their story they now have a proper audience for.

"When I was just a youth, barely able to walk, my family was living in the squalid slums of the city. A horrid and dirty place that forced each and every citizen to fight for their next day." The child's tone conveyed rumination as they held their hands close to their body. "Every crumb of food was a blessing. My father, the drunk he was, made my life there that much worse. I shall not retell the horrors of what I saw in my retched home." They grimaced. The kid spoke like someone from an old book, almost theatrical. "My mother told me of the plans of the ballisters, how they will one day liberate us from our place in the slums. How they will one day save everyone in this city and elevate them closer to the heavens." Bross scoffed. Expecting another tirade of the greatness of our "glorious leaders," he turned away from the child. "I knew she had lied to me the day I had lost her." The orc froze. He turned to the child with renewed interest in what they had to say.

"The unchecked thieves that plagued our city ran rampant in those hovels, tarnishing our reputation with the gods above. The wrath that was unleashed upon our poor home rivals that of the hells themself. I do not know what those criminals did to bring upon their armies upon us, but our town was ransacked. Fires were set, men were killed, homes destroyed. The guards shouting here and there 'Find him! Find him!'. Only myself was able to escape that chaos and break free from my home. Oh my mother. How I despised her so for her deception of hope. The tragedy of what happened to her at the hands of those despicable creatures was not deserved even by her." Bross was transfixed. This lone child was the first person he had ever heard denounce the ballisters and their armies. Finally someone had seen through their incompetence. The elf locked eyes with Bross and held their mournful look, projecting their pain onto him. "Days had past," they continued, now focusing on their only audience member, "I was hungry, cold, and alone. My drunken father and deceitful mother were my only source of food. I would surly have perished in that wretched place if not for him." They glanced to the alley to their back and Bross followed their gaze, unable to see what they do.

"He towered above me as I lay weak and starving in a gutter. I barely remember the days that followed. All I can recall is his presence, his… kindness." They closed their eyes, reminiscing about the past. "I awoke in a worn down shack. I had new clothes, food by my bed, and him sleeping at the foot. He had nursed me back from the brink of death even in that horrible place. He, of all people, took pity on a poor child like myself. He told me how he had been following me before the great tragedy of my home. The man claimed to sense greatness laying dormant within my home, and thus kept a watchful eye waiting for a moment to save me from that place. Unfortunately he was unable to save my mother nor my home and for this, he blames himself. Now to repay him for his kindness, I follow this man and his purpose. He gave me new clothes." The child held out his arms to let his hand sewn cloak be seen. "He gave me a new name. 'Naveen,' child of the sun. A name fit for someone born for so much more. And finally, he gave me a purpose. A grand purpose to help those like me. To build a following for him so that he may save all of us within this city from the tyrannical rule of the ballisters." Bross could hear the sound of a running tram behind him, the commotion of relief from the passengers waiting, and yet he did not move. "This man told me to reclaim the greatness of my heritage. That elves that once ruled the lands like royalty should not be reduced to peasants because of the whims of self-proclaimed gods." Staring at his clutched fist, Bross becomes aware of his genetic strength. How his warrior heritage is wasted on menial office work just to please those weaker than him.

"Sir, would you help me to fulfill his great cause?" Their voice pierced through his chaotic thoughts. He responded in a deep raspy voice, faltering from disuse. "What's in it for me?" Bross tried to stand up straight, pretending he has yet to decide. Naveen smiled with sincerity. "Acceptance into something that truly matters, freedom from all corporate binds, and liberation from the control of the ballisters." They held out their hand, meeting Bross eye to eye from the top of their crate. "All you have to do is take my hand, and follow his will." The orc stared at the child's hand intently. He grimaced in defiance and took their small hand into his grasp. Naveen's eyes lit up with excitement, the theatrics fading. Barely sitting still, Naveen points to the alley behind them, failing to maintain his composure. "He awaits you within the end of the alley. There he will pass judgment on if you may join us!" The proud orc man hesitates, before releasing his grip on Naveen and walks into the darkness of the alley. The sounds of the station fading behind him.

The sound of boots against stone fill the alleyway as the light of the station fades behind him. Bross drags his hand against the brick wall, hoping to guide himself through the darkness. He hears a faint tapping before a light click, as a light turns on at the end of the alley. A large tarp lays against the wall in front of a chain-link fence. Passed the fence appears to be a storage room. Bross wanders towards the light before making it to the divide. There is no gate nor door. He looks past the fence, hoping to see this "great man" he was promised. He turns away and curses himself for being an idiot. "Just a child's story afterall." Disappointment in his voice.

A deep hardy laugh startles Bross as he falls away from the great tarp he almost stepped on. The voice sounds warped and strange, as if many people stood around him. "Give the child more faith than that, my good man." Bross fights his nerves as he gazes in the direction of the voice, meeting the top of the shape wrapped in a coth tarp. "I see Naveen has enticed you?" Bross hesitates to move, let alone speak. This figure… This man... towers above even him. His body is so large he was forced to crouch in this wide passage. Bross chokes on his words. "Come, now. A brave orc warrior like yourself should not be scared by the mere size of a person." The large man moved the cloth surrounding his face, as if to torment the orc more. He reveals a mess of shapes, light, eyes, and a knowing grin. "A ballister..!" Bross trembled beneath the man's many eyed gaze.

"Yes yes. I am aware of the reputation of my kin." His voice resonated from every direction. "I had Naveen keep my true identity out of their little story so that I only attracted those who support my cause, not my kind. Now, answer my question will you? I assume since you are here that you seek to support my cause?" Bross fumbled with a semblance of a reply. "I… Yes s-sir?" The man looked annoyed, his eyes rolling within the shapes that make up his face. "There is no need for formalities, my friend. Mortals such as yourself are not the only ones who have suffered at the hands of the ballisters. I was cast down by those like me many years ago. My ideas to support those below us were deemed 'unfit for gods' and thus I was removed from my throne and sent to live amongst you. Stripped of my power to save you from within, I now seek justice in the most direct way." The man grinned, meeting Bross's terrified gaze. "To do that I must have an army much like theirs, fueled by the blood that built this once great city rather than the minds of those who seek to oppress it. The weak should never rule over the strong." The man clenched a dark bony fist as his cloak shifts as each limb adjusts. "And for that I need… strong willed generals." This hand with the power to rule many, controlled by a god, lowers to Bross. Heart filled with fear of divine wrath and defiance of his life that was forced on him, Bross throws his tie to the ground and places his hand in the man's. He looked up to see the man's reaction and is met with an ecstatic, toothy smile, surrounded by darkness.

The thumps and clicks of the tram was the only thing on Bross's mind. He stares unmoving at his hand. A human sits across from him reading a newspaper, the headline asks citizens to look for a tall cloaked man accompanied by a young pale elf. Bross knew he shook hands with a god, but it felt more like he made a deal with a devil.