Children of The Ase

 "Children of the Ase"

Logline: When the delicate balance between the mortal realm of Ayé and the divine realm of Òrún is shattered by thefading faith of humanity, a young, magically inclined mortal must unite the proud and often feuding Orishas to prevent the complete unraveling of creation.

Synopsis:

Centuries after the Supreme Creator Olodumare stepped back, the Orishas have become distant figures, many losing their power as their worship wanes in the modern world. They exist in a fractured celestial bureaucracy, their divine responsibilities turned into mere echoes of their former glory.

Our protagonist, Zélie, a young woman in modern-day Osogbo, Nigeria, discovers she is a Scion, a rare human born with the latent power of the water goddess Oshun. A mysterious phenomenon, the "Veil Sickness," begins to corrupt the natural world and cause chaos in the spirit world, signaling the imminent collapse of Ayé into Òrún.

Zélie must navigate the complex and often contentious relationships of the pantheon—the iron-willed Ogun, the fiery Shango, the wise Orunmila, the nurturing Yemaya, and the unpredictable Eshu. Her quest is not just to restore balance but to force the gods to confront their own pride, jealousies, and fading relevance in a world that has forgotten their names.

Novel Outline

Part I: The Fading Echoes

Chapter 1: The Veil Sickness (See below for full chapter)

Chapter 2: Zélie discovers her connection to Oshun as the River Osun begins to sicken.

Chapter 3: An encounter with Eshu, the trickster and messenger, who delivers a cryptic warning and the first step of her quest.

Chapter 4: Zélie seeks guidance from a local Babalawo (priest of Ifa divination), who confirms her role and the looming disaster.

Chapter 5: Zélie journeys to the domain of Ogun, the god of iron and war, a fierce warrior who has become disillusioned and withdrawn. She must prove her worth to gain his aid.

Chapter 6: The tension between Oya (goddess of wind and storms) and Oshun (love and fresh water) complicates alliances. Zélie brokers a truce, using her newfound understanding of balance.

Chapter 7: Confronting Shango, the powerful but temperamental god of thunder, who is obsessed with his past glories and rivalries.

Part III: The Restoration

Chapter 8: The Orishas gather at Ile-Ife, the mythical birthplace of the world, for the first time in an age. The atmosphere is tense with old conflicts and new fears.

Chapter 9: Orunmila, the deity of wisdom and destiny, reveals the true nature of the Veil Sickness: a consequence of the gods' own neglect and humanity's loss of Ori (inner spirit/destiny).

Chapter 10: The final battle against the corruption. The gods must channel their Ase (divine energy) through Zélie to mend the breach between realms.

Chapter 11: The Veil is restored, but the world is changed. The Orishas regain their connection to Ayé, not as rulers, but as guides. Zélie becomes the permanent bridge between the worlds.

Chapter 1: The Veil Sickness

The River Osun was the colour of weak tea and regret. Zélie knelt on the bank, the humid air thick with the scent of dying fish and something sour and unnatural. This was not the vibrant, life-giving deity of local lore, the golden mother who cured infertility and brought wealth and joy. This was a sick god.

Zélie brushed a hand over a patch of the river's surface. A silvery film coated her fingers, stinging slightly. She had always felt a pull toward the water, a hum beneath her skin that others dismissed as superstition. Tonight, that hum was a discordant shriek. The "Veil Sickness," the locals called it—a slow erosion of the barrier between the human world (Ayé) and the realm of the spirits (Òrún). The elders spoke of fading faith and neglected offerings; the younger generation spoke of industrial runoff. Zélie felt it was both and neither.

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the trees, not the gentle Oya wind that preceded a storm, but a chaotic, directionless blast that tore leaves from their branches. A faint, crackling laughter seemed to ride the air—the sound of Eshu, the trickster god of the crossroads, finding amusement in misfortune.

"Eshu," Zélie whispered, pulling her hand from the water. "If you are here, the path is lost."

The laughter faded into the rustle of the wind.

Zélie looked up at the sky, a canvas of deep indigo unmarred by stars. The sheer emptiness felt heavier than the weight of a thousand storms. The gods were distant, lost in their own celestial politics and fading memories. Once, they walked among men, historical kings and powerful warriors who became deified. Now, they were shadows, sustained only by scattered remnants of devotion.

She thought of the stories of the creation, of Obatala descending on a chain to mold humanity from clay, and of the first Orishas acquiring their powers. The world felt fragile, like that clay before the breath of life—Ase—had solidified it.

"They won't help us," Zélie murmured to the river. "They can't."

A small object washed up against the bank, a piece of dark, smooth stone with an unfamiliar, sharp symbol carved into it. It was cold to the touch, yet she felt a primal, metallic heat emanating from its core. Ogun, the thought came unbidden, a force of iron and will.

This wasn't just a sick river; this was a call to arms. The gods weren't just fading—they were in danger, and their fall would take humanity with them. Zélie pocketed the stone, her heart pounding with a purpose

Chapter 2: The Scion

Zélie ran back to the heart of Osogbo, the cool river mud squishing between her toes. The stone, smooth and black as polished obsidian, was surprisingly heavy in her pocket, a constant, cool weight against her thigh. It felt less like a rock and more like a sleeping weapon. The air grew stiller as she moved away from the water, the strange, chaotic wind dying down to a mere whisper.

She headed toward the shrine of the Osun-Osogbo Sacred Grove, a place of vibrant sculptures and towering trees that had, until this week, felt like a peaceful sanctuary. Now it felt like a fortress under siege.

The city was asleep, but Mama Tunde’s small, vibrant shop—selling everything from fresh fruit to small, carved figures of the Orishas—was open, a beacon of light in the sleeping market square.

Mama Tunde was a formidable woman whose knowledge of local history and spiritual matters far exceeded her simple shop front suggested. Zélie had come to her many times, seeking advice on herbs or minor ailments. Tonight, she needed answers that weren didn't come in a bottle.

"You look like you've seen the trickster himself, child," Mama Tunde said, her eyes sharp and assessing over her reading glasses. She was sorting through a basket of kola nuts.

Zélie pulled the stone from her pocket and placed it on the counter. The metal heat it gave off seemed to make the very air in the shop crackle.

Mama Tunde stopped sorting the nuts. Her eyes widened slightly, a rare display of surprise. She picked up the stone, her gnarled fingers running over the carved symbol—a simple but potent representation of a sword crossing a hammer.

"This is not from Ayé," the old woman murmured, her voice losing its everyday cadence and taking on a deeper, more resonant tone. "This is Ase made solid."

"The water is the least of our worries." Mama Tunde placed the stone down gently, sliding it back to Zélie. "The gods are restless. Their connection to us is fraying. They lose power because we lose faith, and in losing power, they lose themselves."

"What does that mean for us?" Zélie pressed.

"Chaos," Mama Tunde said simply. "The balance of the world is maintained by the divine order. When the gods start to fall silent, the world falls apart. The Veil Sickness you see in the river, the erratic wind—that is the world crying out as the barriers between realms weaken."

Mama Tunde leaned over the counter, her expression grave. "The fact that this stone, an artifact of Ogun, came to you... it suggests the gods have chosen a messenger. You have the spark, Zélie. I always knew it. You are a Scion."

Zélie blinked. "A scion of whom?"

"Oshun," Mama Tunde said with absolute certainty. "The river called to you. The gold in your eyes, the music you feel in your soul. She has claimed you since birth."

Zélie scoffed, a nervous laugh escaping her. "I'm just Zélie. I make jewelry and help my aunt in the market. I don't have Ase. I don't have powers."

As she said the word "powers," the small oil lamp on the counter flared violently, extinguishing itself with a puff of black smoke. The glass chimney of the lamp cracked neatly down the middle.

Mama Tunde smiled faintly in the sudden dimness provided only by a distant street light. "Denial is a powerful force, child, but not as powerful as destiny. The gods need you to find them, to remind them of their purpose, and to force them to mend the Veil."

Zélie looked down at the Ogun stone. It felt warmer now, almost alive. "How am I supposed to unite a pantheon of notoriously proud, feuding deities who haven't spoken in centuries?"

"With wit, grace, and the Ase of Oshun," Mama Tunde said. "Your first task is simple: the messenger who guides all paths is waiting."

"Eshu? The trickster who likes to cause trouble?"

"He guards the crossroads," Mama Tunde corrected gently. "He determines what paths are open and which are closed. If anyone knows where the forgotten gods have hidden themselves, it is he."

A new sound reached them from outside—the distant wail of a police siren, quickly followed by the snap of thunder from a clear sky. A single drop of rain, thick and heavy, hit the tin roof above them.

"It washed up from the river," Zélie explained quickly. "The river is sick, Mama. The water... it’s wrong."

continue

Chapter 3: The Crossroads

The crossroads outside of Osogbo was less of a mystical nexus and more of a muddy intersection where the old highway met a dirt path leading to the nearby villages. Zélie arrived the next morning, the air still damp from the previous night's impossible rain. The Ogun stone was secured on a leather thong around her neck, hanging heavy against her sternum.

Eshu was not hard to find. He wasn't a grand deity in robes of office. He sat on a discarded tire by the junction, looking like a market trader who’d seen better days. He wore a simple red cap that tilted rakishly to one side—his signature iconography—and chewed loudly on a piece of sugarcane.

He looked up as Zélie approached, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous intelligence that made the hair on Zélie’s arms stand on end.

"The little river spirit comes to the dusty road," Eshu said, spitting a piece of sugarcane fiber onto the ground. His voice was melodic but raspy, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "The paths are infinite, yet you chose this one."

"I was told you guide the way," Zélie said, stopping a few feet away, remembering Mama Tunde’s warning about the Trickster God. Never give him a straight answer.

"I open doors and I close them," Eshu shrugged. "I bring chaos, yes, but chaos is just potential that hasn't been organized yet." He pointed a long, bony finger at the stone hanging around her neck. "Ogun’s calling card. The Iron Master has a heavy hand. Why seek his path?"

"The Veil Sickness," Zélie stated, keeping her eyes fixed on his. "The balance is broken. I need the Orishas to fix it."

Eshu laughed, a dry, chortling sound. "Fix it? Ase, child, these gods barely speak to each other. Ogun refuses to forge weapons for a war he can't win. Shango is busy chasing old glories. Oshun, your own patron, spends her days weeping into her river about lost love and fading adoration."

"Which is why I need to find them," Zélie said. "Starting with Ogun."

"Ah, the stubborn one," Eshu grinned, standing up with surprising grace. He was taller than she expected. "He is in the place of his power: the Forge."

"And where is that?"

"Everywhere that iron is worked, everywhere metal clashes," Eshu said, stepping closer. A sudden scent of palm oil and spices replaced the dusty smell of the road. "But his favorite spot? The oldest rail yard, where the great iron snakes sleep. You know the place."

Zélie did. The old, abandoned colonial-era rail yards on the edge of the city. A place of rust, sharp edges, and danger.

"If I go, will the path be open or closed?" Zélie asked.

Eshu smiled, revealing sharp, white teeth. "That is the fun part, Zélie of the River. It will be both. The path to Ogun is open, but the price of entry is high." He tilted his head. "The gods demand sacrifice, even when they are in hiding. Ogun values strength and will. What are you willing to forge, little Scion?"

He vanished before Zélie could answer, the air shimmering where he had stood a moment before. All that remained was a single kola nut balanced perfectly on the center line of the road.

Zélie walked to the nut and picked it up. It was warm. She looked toward the direction of the rail yards. The journey had begun, and the first god she met was a mischievous wildcard. This was going to be harder than she thought.

She began to walk, the Ogun stone pulling her like a compass, the weight of the world settling on her young shoulders. The path was open. She just had to survive walking it.

Chapter 4: The Forge of Discontent

The journey to the old rail yards took Zélie the rest of the morning. The city gave way to sparse industrial scrubland, abandoned factories looming like skeletons against the horizon. The air grew progressively heavier with the scent of rust and oil, the green vitality of the world seeming to shrink away from this place of industry and decay.

The rail yards were a vast graveyard of progress. Derelict locomotives sat rusting on parallel tracks, their paint faded to ghost-like hues. The sun beat down, turning the metal into scorching hot surfaces. This was Ogun’s domain, a place where raw earth had been subdued and shaped by fire and force, only to be abandoned.

The sound of hammer on anvil cut through the silence.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

It was a slow, rhythmic sound, a mournful heartbeat in the industrial wasteland. Zélie followed the sound, stepping carefully over loose ties and twisted metal. It led her to an old maintenance shed, its corrugated iron walls flapping slightly in the hot breeze.

Inside, the light was dim and hot. A single forge roared to life in the center of the room, casting an orange glow across the muscular back of a man working the iron. He was tall, his skin dark and oiled with sweat, every muscle clearly defined. He wore simple trousers, his torso bare, his strength palpable even from across the room.

He did not look up as Zélie entered. He held a piece of raw, red-hot iron with massive tongs and hammered it with deliberate, powerful strokes. The Ase of the place was overwhelming here—a feeling of raw, unyielding will. Zélie recognized the presence of the god immediately.

"Ogun," Zélie said, her voice quiet.

The hammering stopped. Ogun slowly lowered the tongs and turned. His eyes were deep and intense, holding the weight of countless battles and endless labor. He was the embodiment of creation through struggle, of civilization built by force.

"You have the Trickster’s scent on you," Ogun said, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder or heavy machinery grinding into gear. "And the golden Ase of Oshun flows beneath your skin. A strange combination. Why do you trespass in my forge?"

"The world is breaking, Lord of Iron," Zélie said, reaching for the Ogun stone around her neck. "The Veil Sickness is spreading. The river is dying. The gods are needed."

Ogun snorted, a sharp, bitter sound. He tossed the cooling iron onto a pile of scrap. "Needed? We were needed when men needed blades to hunt and iron to build cities. Now they build their machines from plastic and their wars with things that fly without effort. They have forgotten the sacredness of the forge, Zélie of the River."

He walked closer, towering over her. The heat emanating from him wasn't just