Writing Wednesdays: The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria 1.4

You can find the previous parts to this massive story here. Enjoy. Next week's edition I think takes on the "epic" form a bit more, at least in magnitude.
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V.
I would like to tell you, faithful readers,
That Oscambria’s journey was easy,
That he found out the truth quickly and put an end to his curse.
I would like to tell you that it did not take him fifteen miserable years
Of searching and false-hopes,
But that his disease was lifted that very day,
But I am no liar, and have sworn to write only the truth.

Instead I must relate to you the quick demise of the Hero,
Of how he was scorned immediately upon his leaving the theatre.
The throng that once loved and praised him
Now spat upon him, threw rotten fruit and other clichéd items at him,
Abhorring the very site of the cursed man,
Calling for his expulsion from his hometown,
The majestic city of Athins.

As he was quickly forced from the town
He did not spy Cornball and Rone watching him leave,
He did not notice the sneer of content and joy on Cornball’s yellow face
Or the burning hatred in his crimson eyes.
Nor did his ancestral god pity him as he was pushed along,
But he enflamed the crowd’s passions of hatred,
Urging them to quickly exile the cursed one.

No, it is likely Rone did not even hear the vow Oscambria had just made,
For if he had he would have likely been aware of the deception of Cornball.
I can fathom that Rone was still in a semi-lucid dream-state,
Probably still desiring corn flakes and virgins,
And that he paid no mind to anyone praying to him,
Even if someone made a Blood-cut oath,
It was still early in the hours for Rone.

And so Oscambria was banished from his homeland,
Warned to never return, even if the curse was removed,
For Cursed Ones never truly escape their fate.
Oscambria was not allowed to go to his home and collect his things,
He was not allowed to kiss his mother and sisters goodbye,
He was not allowed to salute his father and brothers farewell,
He was not allowed to retrieve his comfortable walking sandals.

He made his way down the jagged hills
As the rain began to fall,
Blackening his soul even more,
Washing the blood-juice down his clothes
And onto his greyed skin.
The heavens opened and the deluge fell,
Soaking the Hero through and through.

For a moment he fancied that the rain would wash away his curse,
Freeing him like a hare that’s released from a cage,
Ridding his skin of the filth and mire
That now plagued him,
Erasing the stench of his curse
And creating a new man,
But he knew it would not be so.

The countryside passed him by,
Barely a notice to him,
As he traversed the treacherous crags.
Sure-footed he was, and strong legged,
But still the wet, steep slopes were not free from danger.
Only once did he slip,
Falling a few feet before catching himself on a large stone.

“Thank the gods,” he said,
but immediately regretted his words.
How could he thank the gods?
It was they who cursed him,
But at the behest of whom?
And which in the pantheon of deities was it
That rendered him an outcast?

“Curse the gods!” he shouted,
and immediately regretted it, too.
“It’s not all of you I have a quarrel with,”
he went on to say, “but only the one who cursed me so.
I have wronged no one and do not know why this fate has befallen me.
Please, if anyone is listening,
Reveal yourself to me and ease my burden.”

But no god appeared to Oscambria,
And the rain continued to fall, heavy and cold.
“Bah!” he chided, “the gods!”
He soon spied an opening in the side of the hill,
A cave offering protection from the rain,
And made his way to it,
Stooping his tall form in order to enter.

The cavern was small and dark,
Perfect for an exile,
And Oscambria laid himself across the cold floor,
Resting his head on a hard rock like Jacob of Old did.
Yet sleep would not come to the Hero,
For the events of the day had been too much
For his weary mind to forget.

He thought of the looks of his admirers,
Of the appalling horror on their faces when the curse took him.
How quickly their fascination and joy from his performance died.
He thought of his acting as Cademeaus,
The doomed lover and masterpiece character of Steven the Bard,
And how brilliantly he had performed,
Perhaps his final role.

He thought of the sweet, stolen kiss of Telamarris after the show,
The beautiful virgin he’d had his secret eye on for some time.
There were plenty of women that had captured his body,
And he theirs,
But she was one of the few that had entranced his heart.
The surprised look on her face and the quick blush to her cheeks
And Oscambria knew he’d captured her heart, too.

He thought of his challenge to the yellow-faced Zzizgarg
And the reaction the immortal had given.
He’d simply wanted to joke with the immortal,
But the Blood-son was pompous and Fireblooded,
Not one to give audience to a child of a fleshling,
Even if it was centuries ago,
Even if they shared the same deity.

In a sense, Zzizgarg and Oscambria were brothers,
Though not in blood but by Fire.
The god Rone had mated with a mortal woman named Paliea,
And through her line the Fireblood stayed hidden until Oscambria was born.
Semi-mortal, gifted with Flame and skills far above mortals,
But peasantry and weak compared to the immortals,
He was used to being an outcast, even if he was famed.

He thought of his pet galleyrat, Mossossopia,
And a pang of heartache tore through him.
“Oh Mossossopia, how I long to hold thee
and scratch your silky fur,
how I yearn for your tiny teeth to nibble my finger.”
He wondered who would care of his galleyrat,
Or if his family would just let it starve.

He thought about his life, how he’d constantly been in the public’s eye.
They were attracted to him,
They followed him in all of his endeavors,
And they spread their gossip faster than he could travel.
His life of fame had its advantages,
But it also was a lonely existence,
Devoid of personal friendships.

“What have I done to upset you all,” he began praying,
“That you’ve saw fit to curse me so?
If I have offended in any way, forgive me.
I have served the Muses faithfully my whole life,
Letting their passions be my passions,
And I have asked for little in return.
Please reveal to me my error.”

In the darkness of the cave there was no response,
Only the steady sound of rain hitting the ground outside.
Night waxed full now, and the moon was hidden by the storm clouds.
The Fire that burned through Oscambria’s veins kept him warm,
But he was not immune to the crisp cave air.
He stripped his stained acting garments off, scrubbing at the juice-blood,
And laid them out to dry.

Oscambria did not stay awake all night,
But soon was overtaken with fatigue and he faded into Dream,
The realm where mortals, immortals, gods, and all others meld together.
It was here, in the Worlds of Haze,
Where the Hero found out the meaning behind his curse,
discovered who was responsible,
And learned of his great and terrible destiny.