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All Loa are born in nothingness; so it is told. Into the nothingness, a name is spoken. The name is carried by voices, wet with blood. The name is rendered unto the Loa. Temoc’Tun sleeps, yet He feels.
His nothingness, a void without color, spasms in pain. Skin tears from His back with cruel knives, ancient stone grinds His flesh; so He is given form. Clubs sunder bone, He screams; so He is given arms to lift, legs to stand. The knife enters Him, and He is given pierced lungs, a burnt heart, entrails to vomit past the blade. He is given a mouth for the knife to split, a tongue for it to sever. His teeth grow as they are crushed, his throat anointed by their shards.
He rises then, His nothing fit to be made real. He is in pain. He howls His Hate. From whence the pain comes, He does not know. It is Him. From death unto birth, it is all He’s ever known. Rope strangles His feet and hands, He moves, and evil words command Him to stay; He is given ears.
He does not understand prayer, so he hates it. He thrashes with broken limbs at the sound of His name; beggars wailing for strength, for domination. He beats the walls with rotted hands; pain breaks and reforms his shoulders. He strikes the walls with his shattered skull, and jeers summon blood to inundate his prison.
It is told; the life upon the altar, whose blood is spilled and pain extracted, gives shape to the Loa. He fights to hasten His birth, rarely to flee, but to inflict hurts a hundredfold unto His captors; for a creature who knows naught but pain, does not wish to end it, only spread His blessing to all who worship at His altar.
Each life taken strengthens Him. The greatest pain before the moment of death feeds Him. The body of Temoc’Tun is broken in accordance with His life’s victims; it is not crippled. How many lives He needs to break his shell, is not told. The priests kill all they must. Do you believe they detest their duties? They smile red.
Prayers reach His ears, hot needles forced in, demanding His genesis in the world. Strength, strength is what they crave. How they salivate for the gift, and how He rises turgid against His shell to give it. He will show them strength.
Blood soaks His blackened feet, rises to knees bent back and smashed, fills the cavity of His stomach. Blood has become His breath and He drowns; and it is said, the Loa close to death gains the strength to join us, to steal the life from us.
Temoc’Tun, who has been liven shape contrary to His will, who has been taken from sleep and given agony immeasurable, grows terrible in His rage.
He thrusts His broken bones against His walls. The first light of an evil sun melts His countenance. The blood of a thousand trolls bursts forth and floods the summit of the altar, carrying the sacrificial bones on the steaming tide. Rivers run down the steps from the summit of the temple. The plaza is buried in offal; His faithful die in ecstasy.
This is He: a troll in the shape of our people from beyond memory. His arms are like the strongest boughs; they grow strangely from the perpetual breaking of his bones. On His stomach festers a gaping wound, from which black blood and innards spill and never cease. It is said the smell of Him will lay you dead. Blood marks His every step; He has no skin with which to mend His cuts unnumbered.
The priests raise their arms to the Loa. He has come, now they receive his blessing. From the mouth of Temoc’Tun gushes blood, scalding the priests, parting skin from muscle. He lifts their writhing, red shapes, tears hip from abdomen. His pleasure is vast amid their cries. This is what they wanted. He is happy to provide.
Temoc’Tun has come to Be. Temoc’Tun stands alone on the temple summit. A froth of gore simmers in the silence. Throughout Stranglethorn, worshippers hear his call.
And if you speak His name, the Loa might come. For. You!
Asha raised her voice and smacked the floor with both hands, and the adolescents, frozen in fear before her, scrambled to their feet and bolted out of the fort, screaming for their lives.
Jenna had fallen backwards. The shock was like an ice bath to her veins and she shivered visibly in the balmy night air. She’d seen Asha struggle not to chuckle as the children ran, but when she turned to Jenna and saw her paralyzed on the floor, she softened with remorse.
“That was horrible!” Jenna whined as Asha picked her up off the floor and held her up to her breast.
“I’m sorry, teacup, I didn’t mean for you to take fright as well,” Asha said, kissing her hair.
“And the children?”
“Them I meant to scare,” Asha said. “Fear, disgust, that’s what Loa deserve.”
Jenna craned her neck to look Asha in the eyes. She wasn’t lying, nor was she amused.
“Then… was it true?”
Jenna knew Asha’s looks well. She was thinking of just how much to reveal, how much was necessary and how much was an unjust cruelty to tell. Just what had she seen in her time with Atal’masha? Jenna felt arms, safe and warm, wrap around her.
“Not all,” Asha said, back into her horror-story register. “But true enough.”