[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : The Elder Gods Edition

I have been called many names throughout my life: scribe, messenger, 
 destroyer, mindless minion. All these names describe what I did, not what I 
 am. Now that I'm nothing but a shadow of my former self, people call me what I 
 am, not what I do. The irony is n't lost on me. 
 
 I have done many things in my life: I took notes, I conveyed messages, I 
 killed, I obeyed my orders. Now that my Masters are gone, and most of my body 
 too, I can not do much. I can tempt, I can suggest, I can influence. I can work 
 to bring my Masters back. I do so without orders. I do it because it seems the 
 right thing to do. The irony here is not lost on me, too. 
 
 It took the primitive beings of this world uncounted millennia to develop 
 enough intelligence that I could make them my tools. My remains rested in the 
 ground, deeply buried under markers that the natives considered sacred or 
 cursed. Fortunately for me, these so-called humans are more curious than 
 clever. They are violent and greedy and social. Sometimes a Messenger can 
 hope. 
 
 My first host dug up a fragment of me in search of riches. He held the 
 black shard up to his eyes. I slipped into his brain. 
 He died in the process. I had been thankful for freeing me from my tomb and 
 gave him all my knowledge. I do n't even know what he looked like. From the 
 short time of our contact I gleaned what you would call his self-image. He 
 died from shock when I connected myself to all of his synapses at the same 
 time. 
 
 His death could have meant another few millennia of waiting, had n't the old 
 shaman put his ear close to the mouth of my saviour. I slipped over into his 
 brain. This time, I connected myself a few random synapses at a time. The 
 whole process lasted over a year. 
 
 By the time I was done, the men had returned to their country. In their 
 fragile little sail boats they had crossed the ocean in search for riches and 
 arable land. Bad weather and unfriendly inhabitants spoiled their courageous 
 endeavour. With almost empty hands, they returned east, to their cold lands in 
 the north. At least, they brought me. 
 
 The old man was my second victim. He too did n't take the integration well. After a 
 while I noticed he saw things that were n't there. A few of my memories 
 leaked into his. He could n't control it. Two years after he had taken me 
 from the dead man, the blind shaman killed himself. He could n't take the 
 images any more. The images that leaked from my memories. Images where I 
 imparted messages for my Masters. 
 
 I had the chance to slip into the brain of his three year old grandson. This 
 did n't kill him. I learned which parts of the brain I had to connect to first. 
 Unfortunately, if the host is too young, their mental development stops and 
 they remain dull, infantile creatures. 
 
 It took me another few attempts to get the age right. If I integrated myself 
 in early adolescence, the host adapted quickly. He could even access my memory 
 actively like I was an extension of his. I could pick the memories I wanted to 
 preserve and transfer them to my long-time storage. This went on for a few 
 generations. 
 
 Then came Howard, the Coward. My host at that time was a blacksmith. Howard 
 was the son of noble man. He approached our stall at the market and wanted to 
 buy a sword. I noticed something in the boy. He could move through space like 
 I have been able to. He could jump from point to point via five-dimensional 
 space, instead of crawling through three-dimensional space like the rest of 
 humanity. 
 
 I made the blacksmith pretend to be hard of hearing. The boy screamed into the 
 man's ear. I slipped into Howard's brain. 
 
 Over the next two years, he learned many things. The images of past deeds 
 did n't shock him as much as the other hosts before. Sometimes he actively 
 reviewed them. Most of the time, he was interested in politics, strategy, and 
 the proper use of his powers. Then, people around him began to die. 
 
 Some fell down the stairs. Some were kicked by frightened horses. After a 
 while Howard did n't come out of his room any more. He got his nickname. After 
 another year he was king, because there was nobody else left. Howard, the 
 Coward had murdered himself onto the throne. 
 
 And he kept killing. He instigated wars, rebellions, uprisings, just to have 
 an excuse to go on a killing spree. He wore the same uniform as his men and would 
 fight from the front. Instead of the open field battles with thousands of men 
 on either side, he led small bands of merciless killers into the camps and 
 slaughtered the soldiers in their sleep. He had his men waiting for the enemy 
 in holes and in trees to kill them when they were on the way to a battle. 
 
 His reign ended by a chance hit from an arrow. We just had time to transfer me 
 to his son. Thus I became heirloom to the Kings of Sweden and Norway. Each 
 of them would look into my memories and take improvements to their powers from 
 me. Some where regular members of their species, some had a few abilities, and 
 few had quite some abilities. 
 
 My last host, Horold, did n't take five-dimensional space well. It made him sick. 
 On the other hand, he intuitively understood the three dimensions that I 
 experience as time. He used my memories to hone his abilities to see into the 
 future. 
 
 He saw the war. He saw the slim chances his little country had regardless 
 which side they would choose. He saw a handful of futures where his country 
 survived. But at what price... 
 
 Then an American man with the name Allan Kay said, `` The best way to predict 
 the future is to shape it yourself.'' Horold began shaping. He took risks. 
 Sometime he gambled. In the end, he steered his country into the right 
 direction.
