Path of Exile Talent Competition

The Shaper


The Elder

I am Karui, not by birth but by chain. Look at this mark on my side- I have been branded as a slave. Look at my crooked knuckles, bent by honest labour. Look to at my brow, which wore a diadem and a warrior’s helm. I have crossed all these borders from highest to lowest, and when the bloody season came, I fought with Kitava. I bear witness to you, Exile, should you read this history.
I was born Denarus Avarius, a lesser cousin of the most recent High Templar, raised to be one more sword of the eternal inquisition. When I announced to my family that I would henceforth be Acacia Avarius and prepare instead for the nunnery, I lost my family name and my blade. And so one lives as one can, as a mere citizen of Oriath. I cared for the horses in a stable serving one of the wealthier houses; when family would come to visit they would stare past me and make demands of me as if we were raised on different milk. It hurt to not curse their names but this was the understanding we had: I would not attempt to reclaim my name and station, and they would not have me exiled. It was a year that I that I served before one of the horses fell ill and perished; of course I was suspected of bewitching it and levied a terrible fine. And of course when I tried to make off with my master’s finest jewels to pay it off I was caught. And when one is a thief, one is made a slave.
I have been named Karui many times, on different authorities. The first was when I was jailed. The Templars do not declare a difference, officially, between different types of slaves. When one loses one’s freedom - which can happen with such suddenness that it might shock my fine noble readers - one is branded. The brand on my back declares that to the satisfaction of the Templars I am Karui. I have never been to Ngamakanui, nor have my ancestors. I did not speak the tongue. I was not schooled in the rites that show the honour you have earned. We had one thing that united us: we were in chains, and that was enough. In the dungeons, we shared our food in common. When I felt strong I smuggled crusts of mouldy bread under my tunic for those the jailors denied food. When I was weak, my comrades offered me the least brackish water from the troughs. When the guards invented some transgression so that they might have a sport of punishment, I stood silently with my brothers and sisters of the way. I would not break and incriminate another, and they would not name me. This holy solidarity, sisterhood with my people, was the second time that I became Karui, and the one that is true. That is when I received my warrior’s name, which I will keep secret as is right. Utula once said to me: “We did not share blood before, but now our blood is mixed in the gutters.” He was right. Regardless of anything else to come, he was right. And so when he and a few of the others spoke of an old god, I was ready to listen to my brothers and sisters.
You, who were not raised a templar, how much do you know of the worship of Innocence? It is corrupt, completely; I see no evidence it was ever otherwise. For those who lack power, it is a constant degradation, a punishment, a terror. The slightest error in practice or liturgy is punishable with the lash, if one is lucky; with a more personal assault by your betters if you aren’t. If you are one of the high, one’s practice consists mostly of extracting those punishments, the more cruelly the better. There is a hierarchy of viciousness, manifest in which men ascend. Who can doubt that this is the cruelty Innocence desires? The priests talk of the horrors of the vaal who sacrificed men, women, and children to their old gods, but they do the same every day. The Templars are simply not so merciful to let the sacrifices die.
In the dungeons, we were free of Innocence at least. We had for years carved our scrimshaw prayers into the bones thrown to us in our food; hymns to Hinekora and Tukohama begging for a virtuous death etched into pig trotters. A cruel facsimile of whale bone but better to keep the practice, the old ones said. The Templars would find our etchings and drag a man to the stocks, and when he returned a week later we would bathe and honour him. To go to one’s punishment at the hands of the templar and return - is that not like going to the realm of Hinekora and returning? Returning weakened - is that not tithing one’s own body to the hunger? We had a choice - accept those terms, or accept those of the Oriathans. We would always choose resistance, into death and beyond.
The hunger, of course, was always there. Have you been imprisoned? Have you seen the dungeons? The hunger is everywhere. It is what kills and what drives men mad. How could we overlook it’s power? And so we carved songs to Kitava as well. Some of the old ones sucked their teeth in disapproval but when the Templars beat us for our prayers they held the line as the rest of us did. Kitava offered something the other gods didn’t. Kitava suffered alongside us. There are gods that call to the free, and gods that call to the chained. He knew what we endured, for he endured the same. He knew the cruelty of the world from his own siblings. Soon Kitava was the only god we called to and the only one who answered.
What changed for us? The Exile, of course. You slew everything, indiscriminately. You were no hero, cutting down the good and the evil alike. You slew the jailor and the slave, the hungry and the full. You were the storm, the tidal wave, the volcano; and in your wake we were free. Not because you cared to free us, but because you bent the bars in your passage. Think of this. The whole nation of Oriath. A city entirely built on the bones of slaves, maintained by the blood of slaves, funded by the stolen wealth of slaves. A nation whose rapacity outstripped Kitava’s by far. But leave the slightest crack and the foundation crumbles, the city’s bones yearning to fight. How many of us had they warped into war-things, nearly but not completely mindless? How many of our children had they taken to serve as their soldiers, certain that their uniforms were stronger than their blood? They thought we were broken but our hunger was strength, not weakness. When we rose our judgment was harsh. Why should it not have been? All of them knew of us chained beneath them, and they stamped on our fingers when we reached out. Could any of them not hear our wailing as they supped on figs and wine? Every citizen of Oriath was guilty; and we are kind and merciful so their punishment was death. Hinekora welcomed many unworthy souls those days, and I earned my warrior’s tattoos. Do you, Exile, think our deeds wrong? You too cut a swathe through Oriath. We saw that you did not spare the fleeing citizens, we saw that you did not care for the wounded. Do you judge us for our terror, which lasted but days, when the terror of Oriath had lasted for centuries? When you whip, chain, and starve a dog, why would it not bite? When you do the same to men and gods, why would they not seek revenge?
Our god of hunger, rose into flesh, and it was glorious. The god fed rich and full, and we drank the sweet wine of vines and veins, and for a moment it seemed like there would be an honest reckoning, a real time of cleansing and then perhaps a time of peace. Then once more you came and struck down Kitava, the lord of Hunger burst like an overripe boil. Why? Did you care for the Oriathans? That nation of slavers and colonizers, rapists and thieves? Did you lament for the wails of their soldiers when we dragged them to our god’s trough? I have with these two eyes seen you kill hundreds of those same soldiers in seconds. The mountain pass into Hinekora’s realm is packed thick with travellers whose acquaintance you have made. Some think that you are the hand of Oriath returned, a soldier of the slavers’ way, but I do not think so. I think that you are something else. I think that you were here like the storm, like the volcano. A devoted god of the blade, untouched by emotion, restraint, desire. Purely a momentum to kill, to continue killing, forever; to hone yourself to an ever harder edge. Your devotion to murder is far greater than our devotion to Hunger ever was, and the sacrifices you have extracted far dearer. Perhaps that does name you then as the hand and soul of the colonizer; the essence of pure detachment of from consequence. I am not the one to say; I do not keep the company of evil gods such as yourself.
All I know now is that the head of Kitava is in the town square, chained. The children are throwing rotten fruit at his regal brow, as they did to us when we wore chains. Who claimed the god’s skull? Who flensed his skin and debrided the flesh? I do not think you, Exile, took the time to inflict this insult. It is the way of Oriath to fetter and jeer at their enemies. And Oriath has won. Those with the sight say that cruel Innocence did not die, but resides in the square with his dark brother. Those ancient monsters are as distant from the war now as they were when they compelled it. Their indifference is matched only by your own. We battled through the streets, and there was heroism and cowardice aplenty, bodies piled and survivors bearing scars and lost limbs; you merely killed, untouched. No mark lingers on you. We do not know what you are, Exile, but some of the young ones have taken to carving prayers to you on templar bones. We, older and wiser, suck our teeth and do the best we can: pray that you pass us by. Pray that your baleful eye, and your ministering angels Sin and Innocence, and all those cruel Oriathan survivors, never turn their gaze on us. In that way we do not wear chains now but as long as Oriath stands we are still imprisoned; in that way, you and your pet gods are still our jailors. In that way we are sure that there will be another awakening. An empire’s power is in its cruelty, the strength of its chains; in time they will always break, and we will be ready again.