The past few months had been difficult for the citizens of the Chameleonic Islands. One disaster after another seemed to plague them. First the island of Maqc-turesch seemingly exploded into flames of destruction, an evil omen if ever there was one. Then the sea seemingly turned against them; the currents had changed – waters that had once been safe to ply were no longer navigable to any save the hardiest of sailors. Worse still were the fish that died in droves – the once great bounty that was their birthright was all but gone, corrupted by some unseen taint, leaving many to go hungry.

Then came the worst news yet, the great island of Cham’tosh, called Promised Point by the ponies who had inhabited it, had been destroyed amidst a great storm the likes of which had not been seen in a hundred generations. As the seas had deteriorated, more and more people had looked towards that island of the Equestrian people for food and work. Now with its near biblical destruction, they were becoming desperate.

Already a resurgence of the old ways had occurred on some of the outlying rural islands, where the worst of the famines were occurring. The soldiers of the Chameleonic Defense League had been mustered to put down several revolts and many worse things yet. The outside world would very soon be covering such horror stories as cult uprisings and re-instituted virgin sacrifices, yet none of these stories would compare to the story that would unfold on the smallest of the Chameleonic Isles, Ch’kam-turesch.

It was here, on a day that was very much the same as any day, really, that hundreds upon hundreds of the island’s uniquely orange Chameleon inhabitants could be seen congregating on the only accessible shoreline to be found on their tiny atoll. The monthly return of their fishermen was at hand, and the whole community had arrived to welcome their husbands, sons, fathers and others who insured that they remained fed.

The Ch’kam people were an ancient group, even by Chameleon standards – it is said by many that they were the first of firsts, born of the islands themselves and steeped in mystery. The reality was no less intriguing. Of all the Chameleons, they were the strangest – their orange skin and ruby red eyes being the basis for many an old folk tale. They were a people of hide-bound tradition, as well. They still fished in the ways of their ancestors, with shark-skin catamarans and with sea-hemp nets and whale-bone spears.

They were also fanatically devoted to the old ways, particularly their observance of Chu’Maqc-tahl and his laws. It was from them that the message of the Coming Prophet had first arisen, and to this day they still held fast to what they believe. The arrival of the ponies had indeed changed many things; the people had turned to new ways and new ideas – things that, in the traditionalist minds of the Ch’kam, would undoubtedly bring trouble.

But they also knew in their hearts that they would be spared, because they, and only they, still walked the fiery path of Chu’Maqc-tahl’, choosing to isolate themselves from the world in the hopes of maintaining their purity. Ironically, these backwater islanders would be the first to understand the truth of what was coming - as fate would dictate that on this day they would be surprised to find in the shallow tides not a fleet of double-keeled boats, but a flotsam-built raft and the three outsiders thereupon it.

With a clanging din, the great watchtower’s bell was struck with much enthusiasm. Shouts of, “There’s a raft – a raft!” and “There are men – men upon it!” rang out across the beach as dozens of the islanders, both young and old, ran out to secure the wreckage. The minutes flew by as they finally hauled the haggard survivors ashore. They were Chameleons, of that there was no doubt, but they looked so worn and beaten that it was difficult to look at them.

One of them was clearly dead, his eyes clouded over in the veil of mortality. His skin was a ghastly mix of necrotic scales and sores that seemed to slough from his very flesh. Vile, cloudy white pus seeped from the multitude of strange boils and contusions that riddled his body; the stench of it was nearly unbearable. The natives dared not touch him, for his death was obviously contra naturum in its design – his curse must have been powerful indeed, to die in such a state. The other two were still alive, if only just, and they were swiftly taken up.

In the coming hours, the situation of at least one of the remaining survivors (the youngest, as it were) seemingly improved, enough so that he could remain awake for extended periods of time. The message had gone out across the whole island of the strangers, and already there was a sizeable crowd gathered outside the seer’s lodge, where these new-comers were being tended to by the apothecaries. The crowd waxed and waned over the day, until the nineteenth hour. It was on that hour, in the fading sunlight, that the blast of a conch horn signaled the arrival of the island’s most venerable inhabitants.

As one the crowd parted to make way for a procession of highly ornate individuals – their chemises imbued with all manner of semi-precious stones, and with diadems of woven feather and ebony. They were the council of elders, the oldest and wisest of the community; they upheld the laws and traditions of the people, and they alone would be able to discern these strange portents. Looks of awe and adoration followed in their wake, yet they paid the crowd little heed. They had learned of the strange, extenuating circumstances of their latest guests, and they had many questions that needed answering before they could surmise what was going on.

What met them in the lodge was a pitiful sight indeed. They were horribly scarred; their scaled hides were a patchwork of inflamed rashes and desiccated skin that even now was flaking off into a pile on the floor around them. They were emaciated, and undoubtedly delirious from lack of water. The younger one’s eyes were bloodshot and distant and his lips shriveled and split, revealing only a handful of teeth that remained in a mouth too young to show such dotage. His leg was mangled, caught up by a rope, if the scarring said anything of it. He constantly shivered, even as he sat before a roaring hearth.

The older one was in a worse state; his graying scales were now snowy and pale in places, and a portion of the left side of his face looked as if it had been scoured away – milky white bone visible amidst red and pink viscera. One of his hands possessed no fingers to speak of, only a stump of crusted blood and yellow seepage. The splint on his leg testified to its broken nature, the lesions of a compound fracture were evident as well. It was doubtful to some of them that he would even survive through the coming night.

Looking towards one another, the council exchanged many looks of discomfort and sympathy; these men must have indeed been visited upon by a celestial wrath. What wasn’t clear was when and how such wrath was brought down – in fact, there were so many things that seemed wrong about this whole situation. Without further hesitation, the council drew lots to decide which of them would interrogate the outsiders, and when the final lot was drawn, it was agreed that elder Te’Rgh would question them.

Removing his headdress, the ancient Chameleon hobbled forwards, taking a seat across from the younger castaway. With creaking knees and groaning back, he finally situated himself comfortably enough to begin the session. “Can you hear me?” he asked. His hoary voice, full of vibrant wisdom, seemed to snap the child out of his stupor, as he finally focused on the worn, orange face of the old man before him. His heat-ravaged lips twitched as he opened his mouth, only to close it once more. Instead of a verbal answer, the youth slowly nodded his head in acquiescent understanding.

Taking a few seconds to select the right words, Te’Rgh inquired, “Do you have a name?” Again, the young one gave a nod. “Can you tell me what your name is?” the parental tone the elder used seemed to visibly relax the nervous lad, who, with a noticeable swallow, replied in a dry, raspy voice, “Ghur’Tcha.” Releasing a breath he had not even realized he was holding, Te’Rgh looked over the boy’s shoulder and towards the other ward in their care, asking, “And he – what is his name?”

As if suddenly remembering that he wasn’t the only one who had been stranded out at sea, Ghur’Tcha whipped his head towards the other survivor, a look of absolute agony crossing his face as he did so. The look in his eyes, though, spoke of a deep sadness of spirit. “That’s – his name is K’Umetk; he is… he was the captain of our boat.” This caught the elder’s interest as he pressed, “You mention a ship?” Turning once more to the strangely colored native, Ghur’Tcha affirmed, “The Happy Dragon No.7 – she was our livelihood; we’re fishermen.”

“Was?” the look Te’Rgh received was all the confirmation he needed. This was something that all Chameleons could universally relate to; to lose one’s ship was to lose a family member – devastating in its own right, but to the wizened senses of the old councilor, it was apparently more so for this crew. Carrying on from there, the old Chameleon stated, “The third one in your group, he was dead when we rescued you, and we must know his name before he can be interred to the nothel-realm.”

Ghur’Tcha slowly closed his eyes in an attempt to hold back the tears that fell forth. “His name was Xa’Tchee,” he whimpered, “and he was my brother.” All those present involuntarily flinched at such a powerful statement, many looking away in respect to the traditions of mourning in their society. Looking towards his own feet, Te’Rgh quietly murmured, “Forgive me for such words, young one – I knew not; none of us knew.” Furiously wiping his nose, the former yeoman sniffed, saying, “No – no, it’s fine – he died days ago; I just didn’t have the strength to let him go.”

An unspoken moment of silence was offered up to the grieving brother, who took the time to quietly weep at the blow that life had dealt not only him but his family and crew. When the young survivor finally composed himself, Te’Rgh asked the inevitable question that had been on everyone’s mind. “What happened to your ship – to your crew?” The pall of restrained terror that tore across Ghur’Tcha’s weather-beaten face was so primal and raw that for a moment the elder thought that he was in danger of being attacked.

Instead, the young sailor stared off into a corner and in an unnaturally detached voice replied, “We were attacked.” This raised many a brow in the lodge, as Te’Rgh implored, “Attacked by whom?” Eyes widening as he recalled the horror that had befallen them, Ghur’Tcha shook in a paroxysm of undiluted fear, letting loose a scream of such magnitude that the elders had to cover their ears, before gripping his head and throwing himself to the floor in writhing terror! The apothecaries struggled to restrain him; it took three of them to fasten him to the bed as he continued to cry out.

The tumult was cut through by a gruff voice that came from a quarter least expected. “We were struck down by a monster.” All heads snapped towards this new voice, even the hysterical Ghur’Tcha, as the battered visage of Captain K’Umetk regarded them in a cool manner unsuited to his physical state. As another handful of healers rushed forward to attend to the now fully conscious captain, Te’Rgh regarded him with a scrutinizing gaze as he asked, “A monster?” The look of absolute certainty that K’Umetk’s face held would only make his next statement all the more terrifying to the keepers of the old ways.

“Aye – and not just any monster; by the name of all that is sacred I swear to you – Gho'Zra has come.” A multitude of things happened at once. Te’Rgh physically reared back, falling to the floor in abject fear and loathing, the screaming of the women, and not a few of the men, who attended the wounded welled forth, and many of the elders cast the sign of warding across their chest in the hopes of preserving themselves from the words that poured from the captain’s mouth. Several of the female elders physically fainted – their old souls not prepared for such portents.

Slowly picking himself up off the ground, and with shaking limbs that were more of fear than of age, Te’Rgh was in such disarray that had one of the young medicine-men not been there to steady him, he would very well have fallen once more! Gripping the arm that steadied him in a vice-like grip, he croaked, “Were you a member of our tribe, you would be stoned until dead for invoking that name!” Graciously taking a seat that was preferred to him, the presbyter visibly deflated as he took an uneasy breath. Several of the other elders gathered around him, and in a strange dialect the two castaways were unfamiliar with, they began whisper among themselves.

“What does this mean?”
“Is the Prophet truly come?”
“How are we to be sure that what this outsider speaks is truth?”
“We must know for certain.”
“Inquire of him more – if the time of judgment is here, then we must not be unprepared!”
“If it is so, then we must warn the others.”
“The others chose their path when they turned from the faith – let them tend to their own fates!”
“They have only turned away because we were not strong enough in our teachings – they can still be saved!”

While K’Umetk could not understand what they spoke of, he was nothing if not intuitive. He could clearly understand that they were debating over his revelation. He could hear it in the rising of their voices that they were in a disagreement over something. He could also tell that they were concerned with something much more than a religious monster – what that something was, he’d scarcely be able to fathom, but he would wager to take a guess. All of this he could see, but what he focused on most was the hunched form of the old man in the chair – the elder who, even now, looked straight through his eyes and into his soul.

The arguing councilors were interrupted from their squabbling by the iron-laced tone of Te’Rgh, as he finally asked their visitor, “What you speak of – in your heart is truth; but we must know that what your heart speaks of is in agreement with your mind.” Turning to one of the younger members of the council, he spoke in their strange tongue whilst pointing to a doorway at the other end of the hall. With a speed that belied his age, the elder shuffled through the curtain-lined portal and returned in short order with a rawhide bound tome of velum – its battered bindings and weathered edges spoke to its ancient nature.

Taking the book as it was offered to him, Te’Rgh lovingly placed his hand upon its face before speaking once more in the native lingua. As one, all the attendants and apothecaries filed out of the lodge. When the last of them had left, he cast a sharp gaze towards the outsiders as he began, “This codex is our greatest treasure – a legacy handed down through three hundred generations.” Looking once more to the manuscript, he continued, “Held within are the histories of our people, the legends and heroes of old, and the laws of the Old Ways; none outside of the Council have ever gazed upon its sacred pages.”

With a nod of understanding, K’Umetk looked on as his benevolent hosts performed some sort of ritual with the book – they seemed to work together as one, machinelike in their movements as they unfastened the twelve conch-shell locks that held the bindings shut. With deft hands, Te’Rgh pulled open the tome before placing it on a table between the two beds that held their guests. With reverent motions he opened the tome to a page near the back of the book, its surface covered in a strange set of glyphs and pictures. Pointing to a small block of the text, he began, “These are the words concerning the coming Prophet of Chu’Macq-tahl.”

Leaning forwards to gain a better vantage, the captain winced as the minute shift sent jolts of pain up his body. Ghur’Tcha, for his part, seemed to have calmed down enough that he too took an interest in what these strange islanders had to say. Waiting for them to settle in, Te’Rgh resumed his story, “Three generations ago, the Ponies came to the Islands of our peoples, and brought with them many strange and often heretical ideas and beliefs.” Turning the page, he continued, “In those early days, the people of this island – the Ch’Kam – were the shepherds of the Old Ways, going out to the other islands and instructing in the ways of the Fiery Path.”

Pointing to another string of letters and symbols, the old one continued saying, “When the messages that the Ponies brought began to turn the chosen of Chu’Macq-tahl away from him, we doubled our effort to insure the purity of the people.” Running his gnarled finger along the text, he went on, “We worked many magiques and strove to teach the children in the hopes of preventing their corruption.” With a heavy sigh, Te’Rgh spent a moment to reflect on the efforts of his ancestors, before saying, “But no matter how hard they strove to maintain the people’s sanctity, no matter how frantically they tried to combat the growing heresy, more and more of the flock slipped through their fingers.”

His countenance grew dark as he pointed towards the bottom row of text. “Those final years were difficult for us – the missions began to work less and less, and the people grew more and more hostile to our efforts; they did not want to return to the old ways, they preferred the decadent lifestyles that the Ponies had brought to them.” Turning to yet another page, the gray-scaled elder spoke, “Still we persevered, for the sake of the people’s souls we had to.” A look of genuine sorrow filled his eyes as he pointed to a totemic pictograph, saying, “But it was all for naught – vituperative Ponies, concerned for their profitable trade, incited unrest in the crowds with lies and bribes, directing it towards those who taught the Old Ways.”

As the two outlanders focused upon the emotionally charged picture, Te’Rgh morosely pined, “Over a hundred Ch’Kam were murdered by the people they sought to save.” Picking up where he left off, one of the elder women spoke up, her voice holding a tone of belligerence as she said, “Those were the last days of the great mission; the others had chosen their path, and there was little that we could have done to turn them back.” One of the elders, more ancient than the others, chose that moment to speak – at the sound of his voice all the other elders ceased to make even the slightest of sounds, for he was indeed the oldest of all the Ch’Kam people; his words held great sway.

“The deaths of so many of our peoples nearly destroyed us; we have always been a small group – no more than a thousand when I was just a boy.” Hobbling forward, the eldest reminisced, “With so few able men left, a great time of starving came upon us, and it was during this famine that a great and powerful seer arose.” Turning the page for them, he pointed to a strange picture of a Chameleon in the traditional shamanic garb – tongues of fire spewing forth from its lips and bolts of lightning falling down upon an ancient symbol that even the two newcomers recognized as the Chameleonic isles.

“The seer spoke of a coming prophet, one who would rise from the sea and reinstate the reign of Chu’Macq-tahl.” Raising his wizened head to the Captain and Ghur’Tcha, he fixed them was a gaze that left no room for doubt, saying, “This prophet would punish those who turned away from the Old Ways, but that was not its ultimate purpose.” His speech was interrupted by a bout of phlegmatic coughing, which visibly strained his old body. Holding a hand up to halt the other elders who were in the midst of coming to his aide, he took a shallow breath and endured.

“The coming prophet’s ultimate goal would be to bring vengeance upon those who had come to our islands and spread their alien ways to the people – the Ponies; the seer was so convinced of the visions he saw that he took a raft out to sea, where for three years he went to every single one of the islands, repeating the same message to every tribe and clan of the Chameleon nation. When he had returned, he departed a final warning against straying from the path, before journeying to the island home of Chu’Macq-tahl, in the hopes of staying the god’s wrath.”

With a hollow sigh, the ancient one finished by saying, “None ever saw the seer again, and for over two centuries we have lived in the anticipation of the coming of Goz’Ra, Chu’Macq-tahl’s apostle… Now, it seems that he has finally risen.” With that, he turned the final page of the codex, and the image that met them visibly shocked both Ghur’Tcha and K’Umetk. There, rendered crudely in pitch-black ink, was an image that brought shivers down their spines.

There, with hulking body and serpentine tail, stood the creature that had destroyed their boat and murdered their crew - countless tongues of fire running down its back, and from its mouth a great and terrible multi-branching spear; the looks of frightened recognition on their faces were all the proof the elders needed. “So,” said one of them, “it is true – the child of vengeance has ascended from the deep.” Another of their rank finally asked the one thing that was on all of their minds, “What do we do now?”

Again, the council reverted to their native language as another argument was ignited. This went relatively unnoticed by the two wounded Chameleons as they continued to stare at the picture of their physical nightmare. Their reflections were interrupted by the eldest of elders, who closed the timeworn tome and took a seat on Ghur’Tcha’s cot. With a grunt of relaxation at finally getting off his feet, the old one extended his hand towards the captain across from him, saying, “I am Ghr’Al, son of Ghr’Un, son of Ghr’Axt.” Grasping the ancient’s hand, the Captain responded in the traditional manner, “K’Umetk, son of Jyal’Tuhmetk, whose father was unknown to him.”

Instead of the raised, condescending eyebrow he had expected from the revelation that his grandfather left no lineage to him, K’Umetk was genuinely surprised by the understanding smile that the elder, Ghr’Al, gave him. “None can control their heritage; it takes a truly strong will to forge one’s own path – I can tell that you are such a man, K’Umetk, son of Jyal’Tuhmetk.” Looking across the old man’s shoulder, towards the quarrelsome elders, the weary sailor asked, “What are they talking about that makes them fight so?”

Turning his scaly head towards the commotion, he gave an amused huff, saying, “They fight over matters of faith, such is the nature of all beliefs; they argue over what we, as a people, must do with the knowledge of the coming wrath of Go’Zra.” Ghur’Tcha, who was sufficiently recovered enough from his episode, naively inquired, “What do you mean by saying that?” Casting a solemn look to the young man (a child really, when compared to one so old), he sighed, “There are those of us, myself included, who feel that it is our duty to warn the other clans of the coming doom.”

Trailing his gaze once more towards his fellow council members, he supplied, “Others feel that we should do nothing – the others made their choice, and they should pay for their infidelity; let the faithful tend to the faithful.” Shaking his head at the notion of it all, Ghr’Al ended his explanation by saying, “Still, there are a small few who believe that we must warn the world of so great a threat – they must face their fate head on and be fully aware of its nature.” This was all well and good, but such things mattered little to the captain, who had a more pressing concern.

“What of the boy and I?” he asked, “Will we be forced to remain on your island, or are we free to leave?” A look of disbelief was splashed across the ancient’s face as he scoffed, “Far be it from us to hold you here against your will – when you feel that you are sufficiently ready, we will provide you with a boat and sextant to find your way back home.” With a look of suspicion, K’Umetk pressed, “And these things that you have shown us – the things you have told us, they go freely with us as well?” With a humble nod, Ghr’Al bequeathed his blessing, saying, “Why would we hold you to silence when Go’Zra has already manifested to the world – would you keep a secret that all have prior knowledge to?”

There was an elegant piece of wisdom if ever he had heard it, and he was not one to question a gift offered up in kindness. So, with a breath of tension leaving his very soul, the captain lied back down and fell into unconsciousness, the toll of his condition finally catching him. Of different sentiments was Ghur’Tcha, who with a beseeching look asked the wise old Chameleon next to him, “Who would we tell – how would we tell them?” With a knowing glance, Ghr’Al bestowed to the child a pearl of wisdom.

“Knowledge is power – it has the potential to cause disasters or to avert them… When one has knowledge to change the course of many a life, they must be prudent with it; such is the weight of truth… Were it I to choose, I would take what I knew to those who would put it to best use – those few who would rule the many are often the ones most capable in crisis.” A pensive look of concentration materialized on the young man’s face as he digested those words.

Looking back to the silver sentinel, he remarked, “I understand.” A moment of silence passed between the two, the voices of the other elders all but ignored in their silent meditations. Finally working up his courage, Ghur’Tcha asked, “Everything will be different now, won’t it?” With a bemused expression, councilor Ghr’Al answered him, “Yes, child, it most certainly will be.” And he was right, for the coming weeks would be a watershed moment in the history of the world, as they would soon learn firsthand.

Author's Note

I suppose some of you might be disappointed by the lack of actual destruction in this story so far...
If so then I would remind you that the Original Godzilla had only 15 minutes of actual monster action, the rest was backdrop and character building.
I have taken what I feel made Godzilla great and am trying to imitate it to the best of my abilities. If this displeases you then I really don't think you should continue reading this, as there will indeed be another chapter of this 'pointless talking' before we get to another Godzilla scene.
As it stands, I wanted to flesh out the Chameleons, because as far as I know, I basically invented them...
Don't mind the picture, it's just a poorly done doodle I did while I was drunk last night.
Tell me what you think... Or don't, I don't care.
Until next time then.