The city that knew the winds

      On the far east lies the giant desert of R'tai, whose sands can tell many wonderful stories of a distant past. The desert is dead and dry. Only one river flows through it to the distant waters of the Middle Ocean. Endless caravans pass through it to the blessed lands of Ooth-Nargai, through the Tanarian Hills to the great city of Celephais, rumors of which reach even to Sonanil. The hot sun illuminates its vast expanses during the day, while at night the blessed moon, keeper of hidden secrets, whispers a magical lullaby to the ancient dunes. The predatory yaltons - worms covered in tough, scaly armor - are the only inhabitants of these lands. While posing little danger to a caravan, a lost traveler had nothing to counter them with. For many miles, the desert has spread its sands. In the oldest and most distant cities, elderly women still tell their offspring legends that speak of the hidden city of Irem in these sands: a city of columns that has passed through the ages, preserving the secrets of an unfathomable past.       At the center and father of the desert stood the mountain known as Tsorkh. Endless clouds swirl around it, and since the fall of Ib at the hands of the restless citizens of Sarnat, no one has seen its summit. A silent monolith, it raises its peaks to the azure skies, allowing endless winds to wash over its hidden peak, shielded from common eyes. No one has ever climbed this capricious peak, as the eternal storm blowing on the mountain slopes prevents even the most experienced traveler. The fame of this ill-fated peak has spread to distant lands, and people from the farthest countries arrived, hoping to conquer its summit with their overconfident feet. Many ascended the rocky slopes, but only a few descended back. Their faces, disfigured with horror, frightened the common folk, and their faltering speech evoked nothing but mortal fear. None could even imagine what those who condemned themselves to eternal torment had seen.       One day, a caravan was crossing the desert. A long chain of camels and a few worn-out wagons dragged along the sandy plains for days and nights. Its members were eccentric people with narrow eyes and dark skin. They had been on the road for three weeks when a mountain appeared ahead - a herald of the imminent crossing of the turbulent river of Fdun. The moon rose over the desert, casting it into sweet dreams. Silence descended on the sands, with only a few in the caravan still whispering in anticipation of the long-awaited rest. In one of the wagons, under a yak wool blanket and resting their heads on pillows stuffed with coarse feathers, lay two people. A gray-haired old man and his young grandson, who was no more than five years old. The boy's name was Pemra, and he was excessively curious. Everything intrigued him. And of course, the mountain did not escape his keen mind. Half asleep already, the old man was awakened by a thin voice:       —Grandpa Aubri,— he whispered, repeating persistently.       —What is it?— the old man asked in a soft, despite his fleeting sleep, voice.       —What about the mountain to the right of us? And what is on its summit?       The old man fell silent, but soon began his peculiar tale. Over the years, he had learned much about the mountain. Some he learned from his grandfather, who in turn had learned from his own. Some from a traveler who once wandered into his native village. And some whispered to him by the sands. Here is what little Pemra heard:       "When even Hyperborea, the land beyond Boreas where the northern winds begin, had never heard of the cult of Tsathoggua, when the Lost Mu had not yet risen from the sea depths, and the first people were just settling in the oldest of lands - the land of Mnar, life was already bustling here. People, whose knowledge far surpassed ours many times over, lived at the foot of the mountain. However, they were not content. They were the strongest of the human race, and all the surrounding peoples were their subjects. But the thought that they were all subjects of idle earthly gods enraged the monarchs. They desired to be the strongest, they went against the gods, desiring to be higher than the great, completely forgetting about other gods. They gathered all their belongings and ascended Mount Tsorch because they knew it was not a refuge for the kind gods of earthly dreams. And they built a city more beautiful than all the phantasms born before. Neither Celephais nor Servnian. And only Sarnat could compare with the city of Manikoril. The monarchs of Manikoril, the city of eternal winds, dared to take such a bold step that even the most calm and kind of the great, Nath-Horthath, was angered. The people erected a castle of onyx, resembling what still stands on the unknown Kadath, of course, much smaller. The great ones groaned in anger, and the city of winds continued to grow in beauty.       Nephrite columns supported ceilings of yellow marble, which ominously hung over the floor of rose crystal. The roads of Manikoril were paved with mosaic, showing the already extensive history of the still young city. Not a single tile was chipped by the careless hoof of a donkey or worn by human boots. And through the center of the glorious city flowed a swift river that only began a few thousand feet above. Its waters brought coolness and grace to the city, filling people's minds with good thoughts. The sun illuminated the city every day, playing with whimsical gleams on the walls and steep roofs of the houses. Jumping from one to another, they amused the children who lived carefree lives, unaware of hunger and poverty. The moon illuminated the onyx squares night after night and, peering into the windows of the chambers, whispered tales long forgotten by people. And the endless winds, which they praised and boasted of almost more than the bravest warriors and scholars, perpetually roamed the streets, bringing tidings on their tails that were understood by every inhabitant of Manikoril.       And the city lived for five centuries until that which forced Manikoril to know the divine fate occurred. Fully renouncing faith in the great and humble prayers, the rulers of Manikoril proclaimed the king Tsuntrur a god, who then ruled the city of winds. Such audacious news even reached the depths of the earth, for it was carved on tablets in the dark Vaults of Zin at that moment, and, of course, did not bypass the onyx castle on the unknown Kadath in the desert of the north. The gods roared with anger and contempt for the daring heretics, for the boundary between god and man had blurred. Man had become like a god, and anyone could become one. On that day, the voices of dreams were heard throughout the world, echoing in the mountains, in the wind, in the waves. And the gods gathered in the hall, whose walls stretched beyond the limits of human sight. They had long abandoned conventional justice. They wanted to punish them in such a way that no one would dare proclaim themselves a god. For many days, they pondered until the wisest of them, Lartongon, to whom they worshipped in Kadateron, proposed an idea that, upon hearing it, sent the gods into a frenzy. They desired to send eternal winds to those places, winds that would not even withstand the most robust of structures of all time. And the storm clouds that would line all approaches to the city would not allow anyone to escape. The city would fall from what it prided and cherished its entire existence.       On the city's birthday, still at dawn, when the sun painted the skies in noble crimson, the guard of the northern gates saw on the horizon titanic clouds, as if soaked through with storm and moisture. They were approaching at an immense speed, comparing everything in their path to the earth. The wind struck the guard in the face, and as he tried to read it, he felt only chaos and the laughter of earthly gods. In fear, he rushed through the mosaic-paved streets to the Tsuntrur Palace to deliver the grim news. But it was too late. The wind that had risen again lifted him and, raising him several tens of feet, struck him to the ground. He was the first to pay for his blasphemy. The clouds had already enveloped the mountain, and endless rolls of thunder instilled fear in those doomed to die. The wind broke columns, bringing down the heavy roof on people. Those who stood in the street were literally carried away, torn to pieces. There was nowhere to hide from the divine retribution. Those who tried to descend from the mountain were struck by lightning.On that day, blood flowed like a river, and no one, neither children nor the elderly, could reclaim their right to life. Only the king remained alive, as if the gods themselves desired to keep him alive. Meanwhile, a cloud ship hovered over the city, observing its agonizing demise. From its decks, sipping nectar, the gods watched as the city's death amused them. When only Tsuntrur was left, the ship began to descend, and the wind suddenly calmed. Descending from the ship, the gods revealed themselves for the first time to the insignificant human being. For the first time, their golden halos shone above the heads of ordinary mortal creatures, and for the first time, human eyes met and turned their gaze toward the narrow eyes of the deities. And they addressed the king in their accustomed elevated manner:       — O great Tsuntrur, the god who rules in Kadat alongside us. What were you doing among these commoners and heretics? We have relieved you of your burden, your wife and children, your throne and palace. Now you shall live and rejoice with us. So let us begin!       With these words, the gods surrounded Tsuntrur and began to dance in a circle, chanting hymns in a language that existed before the stars. Suddenly, the sky darkened, and the air chilled. The earth released the king, and he began to rise into the empty ether. The gods' faces darkened with a grimace of humble fear, and flute sounds and blasphemous drumming echoed from everywhere. Tsuntrur felt the palpable sense of chaos when he heard laughter and realized who had come for him to punish him for all he had done in his short but incredibly important life for the entire people. The abysses swallowed the king more and more, until he was completely engulfed, divided equally among the dreadful faces and nameless creatures that would forever gnaw at each other where no return is possible.       The gods left the clouds and wind at the mountain's peak, and no one dares to ascend it anymore. It was a warning to all mortals living thereafter not to renounce the faith of their fathers and not to sin against the great."       What did those poor souls who did not return from the mountain alive witness?