The effect was immediate.
The Ranclin's corpse rose from the ground as though gripped by invisible hands. Its body drifted upward, blood trailing in strands through the air. Dark-red energy coiled around the Ranclin's corpse, seeping into its flesh, burning with a power that screamed of the divine.
The Kramlins stood frozen, eyes wide. Awe and terror rippled through them as they watched the impossible unfold.
At last, the glow faded. The carcass drifted gently back to the earth, untouched, as though nothing had happened at all.
For a long moment, no one moved. Was it still safe to eat? Or had it been claimed by something beyond their understanding?
But then their stomachs growled, cutting through hesitation. They had bled and struggled for this kill. Many mouths waited back in the cave.
And so, trembling but determined, the hunters lifted the glowing meat and carried it home.
A fire crackled to life just outside the cave, casting long shadows against the crimson trees. The Kramlins worked quickly, carving and setting the glowing Ranclin meat over the flames. All the while, they traded hurried whispers, each retelling of the event more frantic than the last.
"After Jermal killed that damn hopper, we carried it back," said a young woman, no more than twenty, her voice unsteady with excitement. "That's when it happened."
Another leaned forward, eyes wide. "The Ranclin just… lifted. Crimson light swallowed it whole. It rose into the sky, like it was chosen by something higher. Then it came back down, as if nothing had changed."
He gestured toward the fire. The meat still pulsed faintly with that strange glow, radiating an aura none of them had words for. It was not threatening, not comforting, simply… other.
The Kramlins fell quiet, watching the flames lick at the divine flesh, waiting to see what would happen when the first bite was taken.
When the time came, Jermal, the one with the blade, stepped forward. As the tribe's strongest hunter, the choice was natural. If the meat was cursed, he would bear it.
He tore off a piece of the glowing flesh and raised it to his mouth. The others fell silent, the fire snapping in the background the only sound.
He bit down.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then his eyes widened, not in delight, but in raw, unfiltered terror. His body shook violently as if struck by some unseen force. He dropped to his knees, tears spilling freely down his face.
Whimpers escaped him, the sound too fragile, too broken, for the warrior they all knew.
"Jermal!" his companions cried, rushing to him, shaking his shoulders. But he did not answer. He could not.
Never had they seen him like this. Jermal, the unshakable. Jermal, who had stared beasts twice his size in the eye without flinching. Now he cowered like a child before a storm.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, his trembling subsided. He drew in a ragged breath, and with it came words, halting, fragile.
"I… I saw… something. A being. Higher than us. Higher than anything." His voice cracked, unsteady. "I think… a god."
Staggering to his feet, he grabbed a stone from near the firepit, the same tool they used for cave markings. He pressed it to the wall and began to scratch, frantic strokes forming crude shapes.
"A man… or what looked like one. But the face…" His hand shook as he drew a sharp beak, dark feathers spreading around it. "A crow. A crow-headed being."
The tribe stared in silence, their gazes shifting from the glowing meat to the crude drawing. A chill ran through them, though the fire burned hot.
Red eyes pierced into their very souls.
"He told me something. He said: You are the First. And I am the Exiled. A king with no crown, and you… my army."
Jermal felt his mind unravel, as if his skull were about to split apart. Subconsciously, he clawed at his own forearm, desperate to stay conscious. Needless to say, he drew blood.
"He… he was in a dark room. Alone. But he commanded the darkness. The shadows existed, and they obeyed…"
With that, Jermal finally collapsed, the stone slipping from his grasp. He hit the floor with a heavy thud, sinking into a deep, unbroken sleep.
The stone rested in his blood. A stone that called to a god, swimming in the lifeblood of the First.
All thirty members of the tribe stood frozen in shock, their eyes fixed on their broken leader. Jermal now lay in a fragile sleep, his face slack, at peace at last.
The divine had touched him. There was no other explanation. A god had chosen them. Revealed Himself.
But what now? Should they make offerings? Bow their heads in prayer? None of them knew. They were hunters, not priests.
High above, Exile watched with satisfaction. The curved beak that masked his face twisted into something like a smile. Though, to mortal eyes, it would have looked unsettling, almost predatory.
Select Western Jungle Kramlin Tribe as your first followers?
"Hell yes."
Place tether on Jermal (the First)?
"Of course."
Exile was no fool. His revelation had been cryptic by design. He had shown Jermal just enough, just a sliver of the truth, so that the Kramlins could only fill the gaps with awe and reverence.
He had no desire for the crude trappings of cults: blood sacrifice, desperate offerings, senseless zealotry. That was not his way. He wanted to be like the air, unseen yet essential. He wanted them to be birds, soaring on the currents of his will, gliding wherever he desired.
Mystery was the key. If he revealed too much, too soon, the illusion of godhood would shatter. And besides, some truths were barred from him as well, even if he wanted to share them.
The tether sank into Jermal's soul like an invisible thread of crimson light. Now, Exile could see what the hunter saw, feel what he felt. Ten such tethers remained at his disposal. Ten mortal beacons to anchor his presence in this world.
And Jermal, the First, was only the beginning.
For now, Exile let his people slip from his attention. He turned instead to something tangible. Something real.
Crows.
They were abundant in the jungle. All he had to do was open his eyes.
Fixing on his first crow, he finally caught a glimpse of his abilities.
Essentially, he could do one of two things: either incorporate the bird into himself, transferring his will into it, or give the crow an order, and it would obey.
Two paths opened before him. Two choices. Two abilities.
In the end, he reached out. His hand stretched from the veil of his separate dimension, his feathered form fully revealed.
And then, he crossed the boundary. Dimensions bled together, and he stood upon the same soil as the mortals who wandered it.
His outstretched hand met the ominous bird, which remained motionless, as though awaiting the touch of its master.
In that instant, Exile's mind fused with his servant's body. He was no longer apart. He was the crow.
Immediately, Exile felt his very being restrained, suppressed. As if all strength had been siphoned away. Like the haze of drunken weakness.
And yet, guiding the raptor's body was effortless. Natural. He spread the crow's dark wings and leapt from the branch.
He flew.
Past trees and endless flame-colored canopies. Over mountains of molten amber. Across rivers shimmering with living silver.
From above, he spotted his followers and chose a perch nearby, watching the tribe from the shadows.
[Imbody Limit: 1]
[Mind Control Limit: 8]
An idea stirred. Releasing his hold, Exile's essence peeled free, leaving the bird's body behind. His presence, divine yet unseen, slipped back into the unseen veil.
At once, he pressed his will upon the crow. The same vessel he had just inhabited bent to his command. He sent it soaring with purpose: to summon its kin.
Ten minutes later, it returned, seven more shadows trailing behind it. His first flock.