Nimrod stroked the long, gnarled hair growing from his chin. It was black with a thin streak of gray. His face, thick and leathery from long days in the sun, was just beginning to show signs of his age. But his body was healthy and fit. Combined with his formidable height and baritone voice, it wasn’t hard for him to subjugate the people.

But even fear, it seemed, had its limits. For on the eve of what was to be the consummation of his greatest achievement, he had learned some distressing news.

Treachery.

It seemed his family shared some of his resistance to the compulsion of fear. But rather than use the fear, his great uncle, Shem, conspired against it.

Against him.

So as he sat alone in the central chamber of his newly constructed ziggurat, he considered the available options. Speaking to his uncle was out of the question. Leniency would reveal weakness, and weakness would give strength to the opposition. But without knowing the true strength of his enemies, or their numbers, he was acting blindly. A dangerous undertaking.

He needed something definitive. Something that would be feared for generations.

That’s when he saw the hands. Strong and unyielding. Impervious to sword or spear, and loyal to him—the creator of gods. The statues surrounding him in the large central chamber stood fifteen feet tall, and featured the heads of wild creatures and the bodies of men—images of the heroes of old. The men of renown. The gods given shape by his hands and life by his words.

As though a block had been removed from a dam, ambition surged into his mind, filling his thoughts with images of a magnificent future. The true capabilities of the power hidden within their language were further reaching than he had ever dreamed.

The Originator, living or not, had abandoned them. And he would be replaced by someone who truly understood how to instill fear and gain loyalty all the while being praised.

He looked at one of the tall statues, whose mighty hands now stretched up to the ceiling but had just months ago laid the very stones of the ziggurat’s foundation. It would begin with them.

The people had grown accustomed to their presence, but still trembled at their passing. Now they would witness their fears made real.

Nimrod stood from his chair, and walked to the nearest statue. He leaned into the marble, looked up at the large blue eyes, and spoke in the language of his forefathers, using the tones and inclinations taught to him alone.

“Versatu elid vas re’eish clom, emet.”

He moved on to the next statue and repeated the phrase. He continued around the room, speaking the words into stone, ten times.

He strode back to his throne, which felt more comfortable as the growing knots in his back unwound. The assurance that normality would be restored before the rising sun cast his tower’s shadow over the plains allowed him to relax again.

Even if just for a moment.