Don Valence
Virtuous Madman
Don Valence submitted a new role play:
The Kaltaran Chronicles 'Reborn Edition': The Eye of Eternity - An epic fantasy tale of legendary proportions; will you join the battle between Light and Darkness?
You awaken to find yourself in a dark hallway, surrounded by gray walls and with no other way to go except forward. There is a icyness that embraces your body and soul, one that seems to have been There for days. As you continue down the bleak corridor, you begin to see a bright light to guide you from the darkness. You move closer and closer, picking up the pace as the light grew and warmth began to flow into your body. Finally, you reach the end of the hallway and into the light, only to find yourself in a large, circular library. At the center, you see two comfortable red linen chairs next to a fireplace. Suddenly, you hear a voice in your head and the room surrounding you.
"Ah...you have finally arrived, I see. Please...please sit down. We have much to discuss, you and I."
You do not know who was talking, but you decide to do as the voice said, since you had nowhere to go anyway. You make your way for the chair and sit down, sinking into its warm embrace. After a couple of moments, a eerie form appears from the fireplace, slowly transforming into a human-like shape. You watch, transfixed, as a figure is made, and the form becomes a fully physical being. In front of you stood a rather tall humanoid, wearing soft-looking white clothing, and a large wide-brimmed silver hat on its head. Its beard flows down its chest like a translucent stream of mercury, and its skin as dark as coal. You realize that the being before you is a male, and watch him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He gives you a disarming smile to set you at ease, and sits down himself after setting aside a glorious crystalline scepter. After a few quiet moments, he finally begins to speak.
"I am glad you made it...many do not know how to reach this sanctuary of mine. Oh, but where are my manners...? My name is Azrial. Azrial, the Weaver. As for why you are here, and who I am, I will explain shortly. Right now, you are in a transference between lives, and so I must prepare you for what you will see. Tell me...do you remember Kaltara?"
You shake your head, wondering why he asked such a question, while also thinking to yourself; lives? What could he possibly mean? Azrial chuckled to himself, nodding.
"Yes...I assumed as much. Of course, I cannot blame you, for it is a land of great mystery and beauty that so few outside of it will ever see. Now, for some answers that will ease your troubled mind. the reason you are here, is because you are dead. You have passed on from your previous life, and are now moving on to the next. Do not be alarmed, for this happens to every creature who dies. Who I am...it is a complicated story, and one I will tell you if you request it."
You nod a bit shakily, for you have been caught off-guard by the revelation that you are dead, and now wish to know what this mysterious creature had to say. Azrial's hand glowed with a soft white light, as a small book flew over to him and settled on his lap. However, he did not open it; he did not have to in order to tell this story.
"I was born into the world long ago, when it was barbaric and young. Back then, There was almost no sentient life, and everything was made by the seven primal energies of the world. It was created by the same being who created me, Pharaxmas. He gave me, and my five other siblings life. Underneath him, we grew and grew, until it was time to perfect the world we were put on. My father, brothers, sisters, and I each represented the elements that fueled the earth, and thus used our natural talents to create much of what you'll see in this world today. This creation went on for seven days, until we had created the start of a perfect world. Phoebus, at the end of the creation, said that we must make a few more things in order for life to flourish...and they were the races of mortal kind.. Each of us put our own power and that ofthe world into these new life forms, so that they would keep everything balanced. My brother Regriel created the Orcs, Kazziel the Elves. My sisters also made their own races; Lenariel forged the Baraki, Tavriel the Dwarves, and Sabriel the Hikarri with some aid from me. then at last, I created my own race...the one which you would know as Mankind; humanity. On their completion, life began to swell across the globe, and we had finally finished what we were made to do."
You sat in silence during the whole speech, taking in the words Azrial had spoken, a flurry of questions swirling inside your head. Azrial took in a deep breath, and sighed.
"...While we were the parents of a whole new world, my siblings and I simply weren't satisfied. Our father, Pharaxmas, disappeared shortly after the Creation, and we did not know what to do with ourselves. Eventually, we decided to have children of our own. Taking pieces of ourselves and copying them, we created several creatures whom embodied our spirits. Regriel created the dragons, Sabriel created the sea serpents, Kazziel created the griffons, Tavriel created a golem of nature, Lenariel created thedire wolves, and I created the Nephilar. While my siblings created their children in massive numbers, I only made three...for three were all that I needed. their names were Miralla, Daellar, and Caltir, and I loved them more than anything else in the world. Each of them bore pieces of myself; Miralla had my heart, Daellar my mind, and Caltir obtained my spirit. Unfortunately, none of those forementioned children exist anymore...they were wiped out after the first Cataclysm."
You looked at Azrial with an incredulous expression. Based on what he explained, you determined that he was a God of some sort; was he your God? What race were you? You could not determine whether to believe him or not, so you concluded to keep listening. Azrial gives you a knowing glance, a slight smirk on his lips, and he began again.
"As with all great things...they all must come to an end. My time on that world was coming to a close, and I would soon have to say farewell to all of my children. My other siblings and I were being drained of our life energies in order to sustain the world; in order to prevent our demise, we created a new source of energy for the world to use: the Ascending Lights. However, the damage done was irreversible, and one by one we faded from the living world until I was the only one remaining. With my last breaths, I realized the Lights would need a guardian, or else they would be used wrongly, and so I left the knowledge of the Ascending Lights to my sons and daughter, so that they would keep guard over them after I died. Not only did they take up the mantel of protecting the Lights...but they also took up the mantels of leaders. Duringtheir reign, the humans I created grew to incredible sizes in population, and my children served them all as kings and queen. In Kaltara, where this all began, it was known as the Age of Creation, and rightfully so."
"Each of my children began to resent each other, until they finally showed outright hatred. My middle child, Daellar, was perhaps the worst among them for this. He hated his sister Miralla, and his hatred soon led to the first war on the face of Kaltara. Uniting his kingdom of Rai'zan, he invaded Havara, my daughter's kingdom, in order to obtain its wealth. the horrible fighting continued for five years, until on the war's fifth anniversary, my daughter's army and people vanished. When Daellar discovered this, he rushed his forces all the way to Havara's capital, Ximara. Upon arriving, they found Miralla as the glorious city's only inhabitant. Out of the anger and spite he had for her, Daellar ordered her capture...and execution. Before her death, however, she said she had sent her two heirs over the Skywall Mountains into the lands beyond, and hoped that one day they will return for what is theirs by birthright. Even I am uncertain who these two children are...but if I were to guess, they'd be a powerful couple of demi-gods."
Azrial laughed to himself at the last statement, but There was a deep sorrow within his eyes. You drew several conclusions as to who these grandchildren were, but kept them to yourself. Azrial set the book he had aside and gazed intently at you before speaking once more.
"That is the end to my story...but the beginning of a whole other story. After the death of my daughter, Kaltara went through a great change, and has been through more suffering than many other lands would ever feel. My son Daellar enjoyed the wealth he obtained from Havara for a long while, but by then his hatred for his brother Caltir resurfaced as well. then, Rai'zan and Sanguire broke out into a war with one another as well. In this battle, magic was forged into weaponry...and became one of themost brutal conflicts in existence. Daellar, in the hopes of swiftly defeating Caltir, searched for the Ascending Lights. For centuries, he wondered, while Caltir refused to use the Lights, honoring my wishes. Eventually, Daellar found the artifacts that I helped create...and tried to use them to wipe Sanguir off the map. Of course, he did not know of the trap that was set to trigger on activation of such dangerous magic. the Lights tried to reverse the magic, to shut themselves off. To my despair...my son fought with their power, and in the end causing his own death, and the deaths of many others. A powerful explosion went off from the battle of wills, and it left the whole world shaking from the disaster. It set off a cataclysm of apocalyptic proportions, changing the landscape in Kaltara and beyond forever."
"Out of the ashes, several city-states and small nations appeared, and began fighting over the land that the kingdoms of Rai'zan and Sanguir used to possess. For one hundred years, they fought among themselves...while an even darker threat loomed. the explosion that was created formed a large crater and pit, and deep within these holes, evil creatures started to manifest, monsters of nightmare and horror. Apparently, the magic in that part of the land had become tainted, and the very elements themselves started to become twisted. Like a swarm of locusts, the monsters climbed out of this place, now refered to as the Bleakness, and devoured the land. the weaker nations close to theBleakness were destroyed in a manner of days, and the stronger ones on the verge of collapse; all hope seemed lost. However, out of the darkness came a small light, created by the Mage known as Tyre. After witnessing the destruction these evil creatures caused, he gathered the strongest Mages and Sages in all of Kaltara, and united the remaining nations together under a single banner, forming the Covenant of Ten. United, this war coalition punched through the disorganized creatures, pushing back the monstrous horde and regaining the lands that were lost. After many years of fighting, they finally arrived upon the doorstep of the insidious Pit of Nightmares, located in the center of the Bleakness. Tyre and six of his strongest Mages went alone into the Darkness, and met face to face with the worst creature of all: My son, Daellar, now refered to as Sharlan the Specter by mortals everywhere. He had been forever transformed, both in body and soul. Together, Tyre and his allies defeated theSpecter, and imprisoned him beneath the Pit of Nightmares with the Ascending Lights. On returning back to the heartland of Kaltara, Tyre gathered the greatest minds and warriors in Kaltara to form the Wardens of the Seals, an organization whose sole duty was to prevent the release of Sharlan, and to be ready for when he eventually breaks free from his prison."
When Azrial was finished, he summoned a book over to the table in front of you, labeled: "The Stygian War". You stare at it curiously, then at Azrial, who nodded in the direction of the book. You pick it up, and begin to read the words inside...
"...at the end of the Era of Blight, Kaltaran society was at its highest state in several thousand years. It was a time of invention, science, and ingenuity. Populations and technological advances seemed to increase every day, and everything seemed right with their world, or so it would seem. the Wardens at this time became primarily a collection of world leaders who were great Mages and Sages, using their power and wisdom to guide the inhabitants in peace and prosperity. However, they had forgotten entirely thehorrors of the Specter and his monstrous hordes, and this ignorance of their very birth led to their destruction. In search of a new source of power greater than that whichthe Ascending Lights provided, a pair of Wardens created a great magical drill to mine the font of magic...they were too late to discover that the power was that of theSpecter, and that they had just opened his tomb. Out from the Breach, as it was soon called, poured the Nightspawn of the past and the Bleakness along with it. It was during this time that the first Nightchildren began to arise...along with thirteen of the world's greatest Wardens, who later became known as the Heartless."
"What followed was a great conflict known as the Stygian War, which decimated the mortal realm and finally ended when Silvan Stargazer, leader of the forces of Light and the Wardens, led a team of skilled Mages into the Breach in order to seal the Specter and his minions away once more. As is known, Silvan (known as the Lightbinder), successfully banished the Specter to his prison, along with the Heartless...but the seal was imperfect, and came with seven seals of which had been lost to the flows of time. As retaliation for his imprisonment, the Specter placed his wicked taint on the Ascending Light of Astral magic...and drove the Mages of the world insane. Silvan and his companions who went to the Breach were the first to succumb to the madness of the taint, and eventually all of the practicing Mages fell. In their insanity, theMages used their power to create mountains from plains, seas from deserts, annihilate entire cities...this Mage Cataclysm went on for nearly one hundred years until the death of the last Mage. the event later became known as 'Silvan's Folly', and prevented his ascendance to Saintdom. the inter-year period of the Cataclysm is disorganized, and few facts are known on this matter; thus, this tome is incomplete."
You close the book after reading the summary, and you begin to look at Azrial with a new sense of dread. However, more questions kept going through your mind: 'Why is he showing me this?' 'What does he want with me?' 'How does this have anything to do with me?'. You ask the first question, and he smiles gently.
"Well, it is because I do believe you will be connected to Kaltara's salvation through fate, young one. You see...I can see the strings of destiny tied onto you. However, I cannot say in what way you are connected to it all. Also, I am unsure as to whether you will be born in the time of need once more, or afterwards. Although, I will say this: you are linked to far more than you believe...and you may be the one to prevent the world's destruction. One question you may ask is 'Why me?"...well, I cannot answer that, for I do not control the tides of destiny, I just connect them as I see fit. There is one more book you need to read...one that is as important as the other."
Another book drifts over to the table, resting on top of the previous one. the title was in a fancy form of writing, and said "The History of the Dragoran Empire". You pick it up and begin to read the first chapter.
"...Before our glorious empire was created, Kaltara was in a state of conflict. Civil wars, bloody successions, and petty national rivalries divided the land, with Lumen'dor being the only sanctuary from the fighting. Despite the chaos, one nation still flourished. Located on the western shore of Kaltara, our great mother kingdom of Dragora grew from the land that used to belong to the mythical Rai'zan of old. A new king had been raised, one with the ambition to unite the world under one ruler. We know him as the First Emperor, but he was known back then as Ashmire Drake. Once a simple peasant, he was chosen by fate to rise to power and lead the Dragoran nation to glory. Among us, he was courageous, kind, and selfless, while his enemies knew him to be crafty, strong, and ruthless. For years he amassed his armies, waiting forthe right time to begin his impending invasion. With his allies at his back, he conquered many of the nations to the east with ease by using either force or persuasion."
"By the end of his conquests, nearly all of Kaltara belonged to him, and he was crowned High King. It was then that he turned his attention onto Lumen'dor, last bastion ofthe Wardens. Growing up to have severe distrust in anything that has to do with magic, he knew he had to destroy the Wardens if he was to make the land perfect. thesiege lasted ten years until his death from a crippling poison. Seeking vengeance for the death of his father, the eldest of Ashmire's sons, Beryllan, led a final assault against Lumen'dor and broke through the enchanted walls. Once inside, the treacherous Wardens were slaughtered until the Archwarden at the time, the Lady Aerysia, surrendered and was executed for the use of forbidden Astral magic and the crime of slaying Ashmire Drake. Once Lumen'dor was torn to the ground, Beryllan returned to the mountain stronghold of Ashen Gate and named himself Emperor of Kaltara. At the end of his reign, each speck of land was under Imperial rule."
You place the book down, somehow knowing that it was all you needed to read, and you look up to see Azrial with his back turned toward you, gazing intently into the unnatural fire.
"...so now you know what you must know. I have given this information to you so that you can forge your own destiny. In Kaltara's current era, Mages are suppressed and controlled...they are despised for their natural affinity to magic, and they struggle to prevent any magical contact so that they could live. It is truly a miserable time...but perhaps you, or someone like you, can fix it."
Azrial turns to you and gazes deep into your eyes. You could feel him penetrating to the very depths of your spirit, reading it. After a moment, Azrial nods and smiles once more.
"I see now that I made the right choice. Go, now...go and become a part of the world once more. I will be watching, and guiding, you and all that are like you."
You feel yourself get lighter and lighter, with your vision slowly turning dark, and as you begin to return to the living world you hear Azrial's final whisper resound in your mind countless times:
"...do not forget who you are, or who you will be, Child of Fate. Whether you be of the Darkness or the Light, know this; that there is never an end...only another beginning."
It is with those last few words that you feel yourself fade away entirely, enveloped in a wet warmth. A light shines in your vision, leading the way out of the tunnel of darkness in which you had laid in. You feel yourself being dragged out into the world once more...the only sounds reaching your ears being that of your very own cries as the light welcomes you into your new life.
(This will be the first of a series of posts to prepare for the Opening of the RP)
The solemn man trudged through the grayish dunes, the skies still ashen with the latest cataclysm to disrupt the world. Dust...it was everywhere these days. the dust of the previously known world, scattered and torn by the actions of mortals and gods alike. Not that it hadn't committed its own atrocities...hardly that. Every grain of Kaltaran earth had been subjected to the blood of Man and other mortals. Nothing was innocent in this god-forsaken continent...nothing at all. This desert...it had once been a bountiful forest, filled with life. Now, none of that remained.
"...But then again, I caused it all, didn't I?"
A voice spoke softly inside his head, but he ignored it, intent on only going forward through the choking sand. Indeed, it was his fault...all of it. It had been his arrogance, his inability to let go...that had broken Kaltara. He was known by many names; Prince of the Dawn, Destroyer of Shadows, King of the Light...but the name every creature on the continent knew him by was Silvan Stargazer, the Lightbinder. It had been his mastery of the legendary Ascending Lights that allowed him to defeat and imprison the dreaded Specter, former demi-god and child of Astral Magus, father of Mankind. Memories stirred in his head...what had happened that day? It had been years since then. He knew he did something...horrible...a terrible accident, but could not recall it. A madness had eaten away at his mind, that was obvious, but where did it come from? He paused to contemplate on his mental state...he could almost feel it...-
"...Look at you, Silvan. Look at what you have become. I could almost pity you...almost."
The voice dragged Silvan out of his thoughts, as he lifted his head to see who had spoken. Just a few meters away stood an incredibly dark figure, whose black attire conflicted with the pale desert landscape. Although there was a whirlwind blowing through the area, picking up dust and sand, the equine-shaped entity's clothing seemed unaffected, simply hanging there. Red eyes met his, and Silvan blinked calmly. "Oh...hello there. Hang on a moment...Araenia! We have a guest! Araenia? Oh, bother...she must be off with the whelps." He looked around, calling for his wife and thinking himself to be in the palace he had once lived in...a palace now destroyed. "I don't know where she's gone off to...Araenia! Where are you?" The figure made a sound of disgust, listening to the insane Warden before him. "...Has the madness taken you so far, Silvan Stargazer? Can you truly not remember what happened? What you did?!" The figure removed his hood, revealing a stern, bronze-tinted face with short-cut black streams of hair dangling down his head. The fellow Mage sneered, shaking his head. "...Fine. I'll help you, Silvan...help you see what you have done to yourself." Seizing the magical energies around him, his body radiated a darkly-tinted aura as he wove a few streams of Water and Air, molded them together with an Astral binding, and laid the healing weave over Silvan's head. The aura of channeling magic winked out from his body, the glow fading as quickly as it came.
Silvan blinked again, taking in his surroundings once more. A puzzled expression grew on his face. "Wh-where am I...? A desert...? Wasn't I at the-" He cut off his sentence when his eyes fell on the man before him, and his face quickly took on an angry tint. "YOU! How dare you show me your face, Betrayer!" The man...Coprenicus, Silvan recalled...chuckled harshly. "Ah...finally you remember. Never in my dreams had I thought my own student would be reduced to such a...disgrace. You should have joined me when you have the chance, Silvan...even I cannot hold your madness at bay for long."
"Forget it! I'd sooner die than serve you, or the Specter!"
"Then die you shall! I came not to save you, Silvan, but to watch you suffer! Watch you SQUIRM! Remember what atrocities you have committed, fool!"
As if they had been slammed into his head with a mallet, the memories finally flowed into Silvan...memories of the blood-covered faces of his children, his wife; the destroyed ruins of his palace home, and the remnants of the city that had surrounded it. "No..." He shook his head in denial, his eyes wide with fear and despair. "No...no...no...no no no no NO!" Out of reflex, Silvan grabbed hold of the twisted...newly tainted Astral magic that hung before him. He suddenly began to take it in, his body taking on a fierce, bright light as he drew in more and more of the magical energy. Coprenicus took a step back, snarling; "Fool! You're drawing too much in! You will destroy yourself!
"I'm sorry, Evening...
It is all my fault...
I'm coming, my love...
Please...do not hate me..."
As the magic started to burst out of Silvan's body, Coprenicus disappeared without a trace. the intense magic continued to pile up, reaching unearthly levels. With burning tears going down his cheeks, Silvan screamed out into the grayish skies above. "FORGIVE ME, CREATOR!" As the words escaped his lips...the world became an inferno. the land around him broiled and rumbled, rising under fountains of fire and lava, the dunes around turned to dust as the earth below grew, rising higher and higher into the sky, as if to pierce the heavens. As the cataclysmic scene winded down...what stayed in Silvan's place was a massive mountain with a jagged peak, that which would later be named the Bindmount. The Lightbinder was no more, and with his death came a surge of untold destruction and unstable energy. Thus he will be blamed for the sundering of the world...and hatred of his existence will continue on for thousands of years. The Weaver had spun him out of the loom of Time...for now.
“So shall He be reborn, on a miracle that shall save a union born of sweat and tears.
His cries will split the earth as though it were glass, and the skies will be torn by the thunder of his wails.
With the Dawn, His coming shall shatter all bonds and oaths, for He will be the herald of the End.
He will be of the old blood and the new blood, and will bear the Star of Creation on His spirit.
With His Awakening will come the fury of the King of Lies, and banish Him from His destiny.
From the urging of the Darkness, will He make his first steps into the storms of Fate.
When He Who Brings The Light discovers His strength, the Eye of Eternity will open it's veiled gaze.
And with the power of the Divinity shall He shine like a beacon for the children of Light...
Woe to the souls of the fragmented world; weep, and pray for your salvation!"
– Translated from the Ancient Dialect text: The Condemnation of Solaria (Prophecies of the Lightbinder), Anonymous Author.
~ On the Plains of Ashen Gate, circa 2732 I.E. (Twenty Years Ago) ~
The screams of the dying met the young soldier’s ears as he lay crouched behind a mound of dug-up dirt within one of the many trenches made amidst the battlefield, the earth shaking beneath his body from artillery fire from both the Imperial Army and the invading Hikarri savages. For three years, the Dragoran Empire had fought a losing war against the fierce Hikarri warriors of the northern wastes beyond the Glacialtooth Mountains, all because General Marrowbone had cut down some tree. To the soldier named Asther, it was a foolish reason to wage war. Currently, he was laying down low to avoid the sights of any Hikarri who dared venture so far into the Imperial frontlines…which they most likely would, considering their deadly reputation. His black-and-gray officer’s uniform was stained from mud, blood, and sweat, and an odor of death and decay existed in the air; it was no different anywhere else in this Light-accursed dying ground. Slowly, he raised his head over one of the trench’s ledges, his sharp, dark-brown eyes searching the pocketed, dead landscape ahead for any signs of trouble. That trouble had found him.
Less than a few dozen meters away lay a small squad of perhaps three Hikarri spear-fighters, and they had an Ice Maiden with them. The men wore thick fur suits and leather armor, along with dull black boots and white masks on their faces. Everything about them screamed of the icy origins of which they came from. They carried wooden bucklers to ignore the electrical currents of the standard Imperial shockspear, and they carried their own unique assortment of weapons crafted from some never-melting ice material; they were a walking enigma in this land of warmth and green. Seeing them sent a deep chill down his spine, fear gripping his heart in its vice-like grip. These Hikarri fought like demonic psychopaths…almost no one could stand against a Hikarri in a one-on-one fight. Their skill with their ice spears had become legendary; an army of weapon-masters. Stilling the terror that had crept into his muscles, he reached for the stormbow at his side, grabbing it by the rubbery grip and lifting the powerful crossbow up and over the dirt barricade. Slowing his breathing, Asther focused the iron sight on the chest of the Ice Maiden…if he had any chance of survival, he had to kill her. Their ‘ice sages’ were perhaps their greatest weapon. As the turbines in the stormbow readied themselves for the shot, he grabbed an electro-bolt from his quiver and set it within the latch of the ranged weapon.
Asther grimaced as the turbines clicked; a sign that it was ready. Aligning the vertical sight at the Frost Maiden’s left breast, he laid a finger over the trigger. He hated killing women…but he had to do this. As his finger rested on the trigger, a loud horn echoed from far off, followed by another horn, and another that was closer by. The Hikarri raised their heads and looked to the way they had come. Asther kept his finger on the trigger, but hesitated in firing the deadly stormbow bolt. That moment of hesitation had saved his life. One of the Hikarri, the Maiden no doubt, raised an ice spear and shouted loudly into the sky. “Aisha Mor’kalar Tisaidin! The Treefaller has awoken from the Dream!” In unison, the Hikarri let out cries of victory and lifted their spears, darting off in the direction off the enemy frontlines with their bucklers beating against their spears as they ran. The sight puzzled Asther beyond belief; what did they mean? He had heard the name they called Marrowbone before…the ‘Treefaller’…but was it true? Was the general dead? A swift rush of anger blazed through him, and he lifted the stormbow once more; he might as well take one of those heathens out for the fallen commander. Aiming once more for the fading back of the Ice Maiden, Asther snarled as he prepared to pull the trigger…but then a hand reached out and lowered his stormbow’s barrel to aim at the ground. Asther turned to face the person who had done so, rage on his face.
The sight that greeted him was a short but stout Dwarf, who wore a battered but still usable azure and near-black suit of armor that bore the Imperial Raven symbol on the chest plate and shoulders. Realization appeared in Asther’s eyes as they rested on the Dwarf; the creature was a Nightingale…the Emperor’s sworn elite soldier. The Nightingale shook his head, causing the long gray beard on his face to swing slightly from side to side. “Easy lad, th’ war’s over. There be no more need for slaughter.” Asther froze at the warrior’s words, his gaze peering at the Dwarf as though he were mad. “Wh-what do you mean, ‘the war is over’?! Why are they falling back? We can’t possibly believe that they are done! They want to destroy the Empire!” Once more, the Nightingale made a negative response, pointing to dozens of flags that were being hung high over the massive crystalline walls of Ashen Gate, far to the south. The flags bore black and gold stripes; a mass enemy retreat. But…why would they retreat? The Dwarf soon answered his question. “They got what they came fer. They got Marrowbone, they did…th’ bastards. It was all they wanted all along, I suppose. C’mon, lad…ye must be exhausted. Let others handle the Hikarri fer now…ye need rest.”
Asther nodded dumbly as he followed the Dwarf, his mind numbed by what he had just heard. Lifting his head, he noticed one of the massive glacial sky-fortresses off to the north, suspended high above the ground by use of Air magic and mechanical engines. However, the fierce, twisted flying bunkers were not what got his attention; he had seen enough of those. No…it was what was underneath the soaring icy transport. A single corpse hung suspended by steel chains beneath the sky-fortress, swinging lightly in the breeze for all to see. The flag of Marrowbone was impaled right through the body, which proved the identity of the victim; the general. Bringing his hand and curling his index and middle fingers to make a sign to ward off evil, Asther shuddered at the sight and turned his back on it...he wanted to go home, back to his native Promise, back to his wife and daughter. Perhaps, finally, he could do so. Without another word being exchanged between the Nightingale and the Imperial Officer, the two traversed the pocketed terrain of the plains in the direction of the Crystal Walls, willing to leave behind the scene of death and destruction that surrounded them.
~ The Oracle Chamber, within the Imperial Palace of Ashen Gate, circa 2732 I.E. ~
Blasted fools! The Seer thought venomously within the depths of her mind, her piercing violet eyes penetrating the quiet, robed figures in front of her. She was an ancient, crooked old Elven rahmane; the first of her kind and the eldest of them. Not many could say that they lived for over two thousand years, with the exception of the Baraki. Yet these ignorant pests still underestimate me! They are whelps compared to me! Sitting in a hand-crafted golden chair with silk cushions and lining, the Seer was as comfortable as she could be…except when she was in her bed. She was clothed in a marvelously intricate blue gown and had rose blossoms in her flowing aged silver hair, and despite her age, she was truly quite young in appearance. She looked no older than a Human woman in her late twenties, the only sign of great age laid in her demeanor, hair, and eyes…especially her eyes; they had seen the rise and fall of many great and poor Emperors and Empresses. They had witnessed the birth of the Black Emperor, Argentus, and his death. But most of all, her eyes had seen the inevitable destruction of the Dragoran Empire; her true-sight was a curse and a blessing…it made her valuable to each and every Dragoran ruler. She was a legend; no sul’jin had been able to control her since her earliest days, but she still wore the Soulshackle’s silver brace around her throat. Now, it seemed only to be a permanent piece of jewelry.
One of the two robed figures, a rather young but extremely handsome young man with short, pure-black hair and bright green eyes, stepped forward and rested his hands on the Seer’s mahogany desk, a frown on his face. “I care little for your schemes, Falinthriel. You are lucky I do not bring you to the Emperor in chains! If he knew that you were plotting against his coming Heir, he would-“ The man paused at the Seer’s slight grin on her ageless face, those mysterious eyes glittering with amusement. “Stamhir will do nothing to me. We both know that his heart is too soft for him to harm me…especially considering how attached his Empress and I are. Remember your place, Jialdin…and listen well. I am not plotting against the soon-to-be Heir…I am protecting him. He is the first male Heir to be born into the Imperial Family in four hundred years! Many would seek to kill him simply out of fear for another Argentus; some would do so simply out of tradition.” The man grimaced and removed himself from the Seer’s desk, folding his arms across his torso. “…then what is this plan of yours, rahmane? What am I to do to aid the Prince-Heir?” A genuine smile reached the Seer’s face at the young man’s words; things were finally piecing together quite nicely. Sitting up from her table and chair, she gracefully turned her back on Jialdin and the other robed figure and stared into the churning flames in her fireplace. She waited a couple of moments, carefully weighing her words, before responding.
“…I would have you become the Prince-Heir’s sole protector. You are to be his Captain of the Guard and his mentor. Many know you for your skill as a Nightingale, Jialdin…but none know you as the philosopher and teacher you truly are. Zaire, you have been awfully silent…do you have doubts?”Her last question was aimed directly at the other cloaked person, who flinched as though startled by the sudden call of her name. She was a young Human woman, with waist-long brown hair and sky blue eyes; a Sage, and a very prominent one. To be so youthful and already know two elemental magics was quite the impressive feat. Clearing her throat, Zaire spoke with a voice which seemed to have a melody within it. “I...Lady Falinthriel, I cannot help but feel hesitant in involving ourselves in the lives of the Imperial Family, much less the Heir to the Empire. It is not out of concern for my safety; but for the safety of others. We both know that events like this give rise to conspiracy theories…and then eventually lead to mass purges or genocides. We haven’t had anything such as that since the Argentus Insurrection, and I would hate to start another one now, with the Prince-Heir to be born this eve.” The Seer listened intently as the Sage spoke her fears; they were all completely valid, and no doubt needed clarity. However, the Seer felt that this was more important than a potential purge.
Turning toward the two Humans, she opened her mouth as if to say something, but stiffened suddenly. The Seer’s muscles locked together and her eyes rolled to the back of her head; it was one of her infamous visions. Rushing forward, Jialdin was there to catch the elder Elf as she fell into his grasp, shaking like an epileptic. The Seer’s mouth was open in a silent scream, tears streaming down her face as she felt the vision flow into her. The sight horrified Zaire; the Seer had never had a visionary reaction such as this before. When the Seer finally began to speak, it came out in a harsh, agonized groan. “…I see fire and lightning…I can feel the blood of the world seep into my hands! The hand of Darkness extends itself over Kaltara! Dear Creator, Sharlan will return! The Darkest Days are coming…they are coming…no! No! He cannot be! The Lightbinder, he is reborn! His cries shatter the sky with thunder, and his tears burn the earth! HE IS REBORN!” The Seer’s prophecy had risen to a terrified screech at the end; a scream that would awaken the dead. As the vision ended, the Seer went limp in Jialdin’s firm arms and became completely still. Jialdin looked down at the Seer with wide, shocked eyes. She was not breathing. The Seer was dead. Laying the Seer’s body down gently, Jialdin stood up and glanced at Zaire, seeing the similarly shocked expression that he had just possessed. Walking over to her, he gently held her arms and peered into her blue eyes, his gaze holding a severity that matched his new expression.
“…Zaire, listen to me. What we just heard…we cannot tell anyone else. You know as well as I that every vision the Seer had come true, so we must treat this one as all the others. We…we have to find the Lightbinder, Zaire. If the Nightchildren get their hands on him, they might kill him…or worse. Zaire, listen to me!” The Sage nodded silently, her mouth tight and her eyes filled to the brim with fear. The Specter…he is returning! The Lightbinder is reborn! The end of the world was coming; it was more than she could handle…but handle it she must. She was a Sage of the High Blood House of Terdas…she had to do this! Her eyes drifted over to the corpse of Falinthriel, and a shudder passed through her. Whatever the Seer had seen, it had shocked the ancient woman enough to still her heart. “So…what do you suggest we do then, Jialdin? We still have a duty to the Prince-Heir…” “I will handle that. He may be a candidate for this ‘Lightbinder’ business…but you, however, will have to search outside of the Palace for him; outside Ashen Gate, most likely. You are a High Blood noble; you have connections…I do not, as a Nightingale.” The woman returned her gaze to Jialdin before murmuring her agreement. It had to be done. “What do we do with her? We cannot just leave her here.” Zaire gestured to the body of the Seer stiffly, wary of the famous rahmane, even when the Elf was dead. Jialdin looked down at the body and pursed his lips in thought. “…I will just have to display her to the Emperor. No sense in hiding her from him or the Empress.” Kneeling down, the Nightingale lifted the body with his arms and cradled it like a sleeping child. The Seer’s warmth was still there, but it wouldn’t be for long…he pitied the way she had died.
“You had best leave, Zaire. It would prove unseemly for one such as you to be in the same room as a dead rahmane. Go; if I don’t survive the night, at least you will.” The Sage said nothing as she retreated away to the wide oak doors at the front entrance of the Oracle Chamber. Sending one last glance behind at Jialdin, Zaire opened the doors and ducked away in search of a way out of the Imperial Palace. Now that Jialdin was alone, his thoughts buzzed with the possibilities that were present with the Seer’s latest vision: the existence of a mythological God of evil proven, the inevitable return of the infamous Lightbinder, and perhaps the fall of the long-standing Dragoran Empire…a shame; a real shame. Shaking his head in disbelief, Jialdin carried the corpse out of the room, prepared to meet any reprimands or punishments his Emperor might inflict upon him.
Stamhir stood silently at the northern edge of his wide aerial porch outside of his Chambers, staring off into the distant dark-blue sky through his dark-brown eyes. His gaze scanned the horizon for any more Hikarri sky-fortresses before lowering onto the massive city below. Ashen Gate; the pride of the Dragoran Empire, the largest city on the continent and home to millions of people…had almost become a victim to the savages of the far Wastes. ‘Savage’ was an odd label for any of the Hikarri, for if anything, they were far from uncivilized. In Stamhir’s imagination, he could have seen the untold destruction, towering fires, and massive corpse piles that would have appeared had the Hikarri pushed their advance any further. Once again, the Emperor was glad he had thrown that fool Marrowbone out of the city to be taken by the fearsome warriors; it had saved perhaps hundreds of thousands of lives. The steam-factories were still in operation, pumping out weapons and vehicles for the Invincible Crystal Army at a rapid rate…even as he watched his city in motion, his generals were leading the effort in harrying the Hikarri out of Imperial lands and off toward the Glacialtooth Mountains from whence they came.
Today, the Emperor wore his Imperial Commander’s uniform; a white coat and trousers with gold-silk cuffs and multi-colored war medals imbedded on his torso. Silver rank tassels hung on his shoulders, and the Imperial Ravens were stitched into his coat’s collar. As for his features, Stamhir had thick shoulder-length black hair, a well-trimmed beard, and a muscular build. His face held similar features to that of a hawk, and the average look to his ears and eyes pronounced his Human origins. Like all of the previous Emperors in the past four hundred years, Stamhir had been chosen by the Empress as her husband and assumed the throne to rule and provide an Heiress…he himself had been but a common soldier, not even of the Low Blood, when the Empress had picked him. At the time, it had been a shock and he was inexperienced; but after thirty years, he had become competent in both military and civil affairs. Another oddity would occur during their rule: for the first time since the fall of the Black Emperor, Argentus, a male Heir to the Eternal Throne was to be born this very evening. Even now, Stamhir stood out on this balcony only to wait for the news of the birth of his newest child. The importance of this event instilled nervous tensions within the Emperor, causing his fingers to tap against the metallic railing that covered the edge of the balcony.
Stamhir’s attention was taken away from his thoughts and the city before him when he heard the feminine voice of the under-maid speak from behind him. “…you’re Majesty, the Empress, may she live forever, desires your presence for the final stages of her birth.” The Emperor turned to look at the under-maid; she wore the standard liveries of the Palace tov’kin, but she bore a Wing of Azrial on her right breast…she must be one of the midwives. Taking his hands off the steel railing, he strode past the under-maid and gave her a thankful pat on her shoulder in his passing. The two Nightingales posted within his chambers, wearing their blue and dark-green armor that glimmered from the light given off by the thunderorbs on the walls, brought a fist to their hearts in salute as they swiftly opened the set of large graywood doors for him. As he passed through, the pair followed him in orderly succession, only to be followed by two more Nightingales who were stationed outside the doors. In a box-like formation, they escorted Stamhir down the crystalline halls of the Imperial Palace with determined expressions behind their red-plumed, insect-like helmets. It took the procession several minutes to arrive outside the Palace infirmary, in which the Empress would be in labor. Making swift hand signals to his Nightingales, the Emperor moved to open the small door that would lead into his betrothed’s birthing room. However, hearing her screams of pain through the thin door made him hesitate. Taking a deep breath, Stamhir gathered his wits and entered, shutting the door behind him in a rapid motion.
On the right-hand side of the room, the Empress Tulin was laid down against her bed, her legs spread and her face contorted in pain. Even in agony and fury, the half-Elven Empress displayed a beauty and grace that none other could possess for Stamhir. Approaching cautiously, he stood on her left side and traded a glance with the elderly First Maid, who bore a worried expression. Something was wrong…was the child unhealthy, even after all the cleansing sessions with the Clerics of Azrial? The fear was infectious. Tulin grasped Stamhir’s open right hand tightly and screamed, the contractions giving her intense pain responses. All the Emperor could do was watch patiently, whispering sweet promises in the ear of his beloved as he stroked her golden hair. The scene went on for what seemed like hours, before the baby was finally delived. However, a bizarre thing happened; the baby was not crying. Why was it not crying?! The First Maid cradled the child in her arms, a sorrowful expression on her face as she whispered despairingly, “…a stillborn, you’re Majesties…I am sorry. The Prince-Heir is dead.” The announcement chilled Stamhir’s body, drawing the breath out of him and causing his mind to swarm with questions: why? What had happened? Did someone poison the child? Did the Clerics lie about the child’s health? Fury welled up inside the Emperor, followed swiftly by despair, and that was eventually replaced by sorrow.
The Empress stared at her First Maid as if she had spoken blasphemy, her blue eyes wide in petulance and rage. Then, all of a sudden, Tulin expression changed and she began to weep. Hushing his wife gently, he drew the agonized woman close, attempting to comfort her while trying to hide his own emotional pain. Locking eyes with the First Maid, the Emperor’s voice took on a deep, dark cold that made the elderly woman flinch. “Erith, go dispose of the stillborn. Make sure none see his body, and then return here.” The First Maid’s eyes expanded in fear of the intimidating ruler, bowing as she rushed to obey. Wrapping the dead child in the white rag she had held it in, Erith rushed out of the chamber to do as her Emperor commanded.
Erith glanced down the halls at her right and left before entering the storeroom, intent on making sure none had followed her. The storeroom was dimly lit with only a single thunderorb, whose light was a pale yellow and flickered on and off repeatedly. The chamber was mostly empty with the exception of a single table, to which the First Maid drifted over to with a frightened expression. After opening the bundle in her arms which held the corpse of the stillborn Prince-Heir, she laid the body on the center of the table before stepping back. Erith had been commanded to bring the dead child in here by her true master, not the Emperor…in truth, she feared no one more than her current leader. Her aged eyes peered into the darkness around; this was where he had said to meet her…where was he? As if to answer her, a tall black figure emerged from the shadows, garbed entirely in black robes and a low-hanging cowl. The only thing visible about the man was the pair of amber, almost copper-colored eyes that stared at her with such malevolence that she shivered from deep within her bones. The man approached the table, looked down at the baby, then chuckled; a harsh sound similar to that of a snake slithering on dead leaves. “You have done well, Erith. The poison I gave you worked, I see. Now, we can begin…”
Without any warning, the figure moved his robe over the dead body. As he drew his garment back, all that remained was the table; the corpse had disappeared. Erith fell down to her knees and placed her forehead on the ground, speaking submissively to the man. “Great Master, I have done as you asked, but…if I may, why did you wish the Heir to be dead?” Erith knew the dangers of asking a question of a member of the Council of the Return, but she needed to know. The man turned his copper orbs on her before letting out another chortle, moving his black-gloved hands into the center folds of his robes. “Ah…you are bold, Erith. I respect that. But you are mistaken; the Prince-Heir is not dead…he is fixed, cured. Another ‘Prince’ will take his place; a Prince who I have deemed as a worthy adversary in the near future.” As he finished his statement, he pulled out another bundle from his robes…it moved! It was then that Erith heard the crying of a babe, and she gasped as the figure laid the new child down on the table. What was this?! Was it the same child? The man answered as if reading her thoughts.
“He is different, I assure you…but his new parents will not be able to tell the difference. Take him to them, and tell them that it was a miracle…that he came back to life on his own. Go, now, and do as I command!” Without waiting for her response, the man drifted back into the darkness…disappearing entirely. All Erith could do was stare at the child, her lips trembling as she lifted it up. Whoever this child was, it was incredibly important to the Nightchildren…incredibly important to the Council’s designs. She could kill him, perhaps, and prevent whatever they had planned…but she knew she would not do so. Drawing the babe into her arms, she whimpered and ran to the door’s entrance, opening the wood door and rushing off down the hall, not even bothering to look back. Something great was going to happen; Erith could feel it in the depths of her tainted soul.
(Here lies the beginning of the Kaltaran Chronicles: the year is 2752 I.E. (Imperial Era), twenty years after the events described in this post. The Dragoran Empire is once again rebuilt and at peace, and the Festival of Lights has begun. From all over Kaltara, people of all races and cultures pour into the Imperial Capital of Ashen Gate to revel in the splendor that is the Empire and to honor the coronation of the Prince-Heir, Rubyn Dragora; first Prince in four hundred years. For ten days, the celebration hails the anniversary of the creation of the Ascending Lights and commemorates the passing of the Gods. However, this celebration will be unlike anything ever seen before. An epic battle has begun, but the question is…will you fight for the Light, the Darkness, or simply for survival? Will you let the world be changed into an eternal nightmare, or become the paradise of everyone’s dreams? All will be known…when the sands of time finally cease their churning.)
The Kaltaran Chronicles 'Reborn Edition': The Eye of Eternity - An epic fantasy tale of legendary proportions; will you join the battle between Light and Darkness?
You awaken to find yourself in a dark hallway, surrounded by gray walls and with no other way to go except forward. There is a icyness that embraces your body and soul, one that seems to have been There for days. As you continue down the bleak corridor, you begin to see a bright light to guide you from the darkness. You move closer and closer, picking up the pace as the light grew and warmth began to flow into your body. Finally, you reach the end of the hallway and into the light, only to find yourself in a large, circular library. At the center, you see two comfortable red linen chairs next to a fireplace. Suddenly, you hear a voice in your head and the room surrounding you.
"Ah...you have finally arrived, I see. Please...please sit down. We have much to discuss, you and I."
You do not know who was talking, but you decide to do as the voice said, since you had nowhere to go anyway. You make your way for the chair and sit down, sinking into its warm embrace. After a couple of moments, a eerie form appears from the fireplace, slowly transforming into a human-like shape. You watch, transfixed, as a figure is made, and the form becomes a fully physical being. In front of you stood a rather tall humanoid, wearing soft-looking white clothing, and a large wide-brimmed silver hat on its head. Its beard flows down its chest like a translucent stream of mercury, and its skin as dark as coal. You realize that the being before you is a male, and watch him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. He gives you a disarming smile to set you at ease, and sits down himself after setting aside a glorious crystalline scepter. After a few quiet moments, he finally begins to speak.
"I am glad you made it...many do not know how to reach this sanctuary of mine. Oh, but where are my manners...? My name is Azrial. Azrial, the Weaver. As for why you are here, and who I am, I will explain shortly. Right now, you are in a transference between lives, and so I must prepare you for what you will see. Tell me...do you remember Kaltara?"
You shake your head, wondering why he asked such a question, while also thinking to yourself; lives? What could he possibly mean? Azrial chuckled to himself, nodding.
"Yes...I assumed as much. Of course, I cannot blame you, for it is a land of great mystery and beauty that so few outside of it will ever see. Now, for some answers that will ease your troubled mind. the reason you are here, is because you are dead. You have passed on from your previous life, and are now moving on to the next. Do not be alarmed, for this happens to every creature who dies. Who I am...it is a complicated story, and one I will tell you if you request it."
You nod a bit shakily, for you have been caught off-guard by the revelation that you are dead, and now wish to know what this mysterious creature had to say. Azrial's hand glowed with a soft white light, as a small book flew over to him and settled on his lap. However, he did not open it; he did not have to in order to tell this story.
"I was born into the world long ago, when it was barbaric and young. Back then, There was almost no sentient life, and everything was made by the seven primal energies of the world. It was created by the same being who created me, Pharaxmas. He gave me, and my five other siblings life. Underneath him, we grew and grew, until it was time to perfect the world we were put on. My father, brothers, sisters, and I each represented the elements that fueled the earth, and thus used our natural talents to create much of what you'll see in this world today. This creation went on for seven days, until we had created the start of a perfect world. Phoebus, at the end of the creation, said that we must make a few more things in order for life to flourish...and they were the races of mortal kind.. Each of us put our own power and that ofthe world into these new life forms, so that they would keep everything balanced. My brother Regriel created the Orcs, Kazziel the Elves. My sisters also made their own races; Lenariel forged the Baraki, Tavriel the Dwarves, and Sabriel the Hikarri with some aid from me. then at last, I created my own race...the one which you would know as Mankind; humanity. On their completion, life began to swell across the globe, and we had finally finished what we were made to do."
You sat in silence during the whole speech, taking in the words Azrial had spoken, a flurry of questions swirling inside your head. Azrial took in a deep breath, and sighed.
"...While we were the parents of a whole new world, my siblings and I simply weren't satisfied. Our father, Pharaxmas, disappeared shortly after the Creation, and we did not know what to do with ourselves. Eventually, we decided to have children of our own. Taking pieces of ourselves and copying them, we created several creatures whom embodied our spirits. Regriel created the dragons, Sabriel created the sea serpents, Kazziel created the griffons, Tavriel created a golem of nature, Lenariel created thedire wolves, and I created the Nephilar. While my siblings created their children in massive numbers, I only made three...for three were all that I needed. their names were Miralla, Daellar, and Caltir, and I loved them more than anything else in the world. Each of them bore pieces of myself; Miralla had my heart, Daellar my mind, and Caltir obtained my spirit. Unfortunately, none of those forementioned children exist anymore...they were wiped out after the first Cataclysm."
You looked at Azrial with an incredulous expression. Based on what he explained, you determined that he was a God of some sort; was he your God? What race were you? You could not determine whether to believe him or not, so you concluded to keep listening. Azrial gives you a knowing glance, a slight smirk on his lips, and he began again.
"As with all great things...they all must come to an end. My time on that world was coming to a close, and I would soon have to say farewell to all of my children. My other siblings and I were being drained of our life energies in order to sustain the world; in order to prevent our demise, we created a new source of energy for the world to use: the Ascending Lights. However, the damage done was irreversible, and one by one we faded from the living world until I was the only one remaining. With my last breaths, I realized the Lights would need a guardian, or else they would be used wrongly, and so I left the knowledge of the Ascending Lights to my sons and daughter, so that they would keep guard over them after I died. Not only did they take up the mantel of protecting the Lights...but they also took up the mantels of leaders. Duringtheir reign, the humans I created grew to incredible sizes in population, and my children served them all as kings and queen. In Kaltara, where this all began, it was known as the Age of Creation, and rightfully so."
"Each of my children began to resent each other, until they finally showed outright hatred. My middle child, Daellar, was perhaps the worst among them for this. He hated his sister Miralla, and his hatred soon led to the first war on the face of Kaltara. Uniting his kingdom of Rai'zan, he invaded Havara, my daughter's kingdom, in order to obtain its wealth. the horrible fighting continued for five years, until on the war's fifth anniversary, my daughter's army and people vanished. When Daellar discovered this, he rushed his forces all the way to Havara's capital, Ximara. Upon arriving, they found Miralla as the glorious city's only inhabitant. Out of the anger and spite he had for her, Daellar ordered her capture...and execution. Before her death, however, she said she had sent her two heirs over the Skywall Mountains into the lands beyond, and hoped that one day they will return for what is theirs by birthright. Even I am uncertain who these two children are...but if I were to guess, they'd be a powerful couple of demi-gods."
Azrial laughed to himself at the last statement, but There was a deep sorrow within his eyes. You drew several conclusions as to who these grandchildren were, but kept them to yourself. Azrial set the book he had aside and gazed intently at you before speaking once more.
"That is the end to my story...but the beginning of a whole other story. After the death of my daughter, Kaltara went through a great change, and has been through more suffering than many other lands would ever feel. My son Daellar enjoyed the wealth he obtained from Havara for a long while, but by then his hatred for his brother Caltir resurfaced as well. then, Rai'zan and Sanguire broke out into a war with one another as well. In this battle, magic was forged into weaponry...and became one of themost brutal conflicts in existence. Daellar, in the hopes of swiftly defeating Caltir, searched for the Ascending Lights. For centuries, he wondered, while Caltir refused to use the Lights, honoring my wishes. Eventually, Daellar found the artifacts that I helped create...and tried to use them to wipe Sanguir off the map. Of course, he did not know of the trap that was set to trigger on activation of such dangerous magic. the Lights tried to reverse the magic, to shut themselves off. To my despair...my son fought with their power, and in the end causing his own death, and the deaths of many others. A powerful explosion went off from the battle of wills, and it left the whole world shaking from the disaster. It set off a cataclysm of apocalyptic proportions, changing the landscape in Kaltara and beyond forever."
"Out of the ashes, several city-states and small nations appeared, and began fighting over the land that the kingdoms of Rai'zan and Sanguir used to possess. For one hundred years, they fought among themselves...while an even darker threat loomed. the explosion that was created formed a large crater and pit, and deep within these holes, evil creatures started to manifest, monsters of nightmare and horror. Apparently, the magic in that part of the land had become tainted, and the very elements themselves started to become twisted. Like a swarm of locusts, the monsters climbed out of this place, now refered to as the Bleakness, and devoured the land. the weaker nations close to theBleakness were destroyed in a manner of days, and the stronger ones on the verge of collapse; all hope seemed lost. However, out of the darkness came a small light, created by the Mage known as Tyre. After witnessing the destruction these evil creatures caused, he gathered the strongest Mages and Sages in all of Kaltara, and united the remaining nations together under a single banner, forming the Covenant of Ten. United, this war coalition punched through the disorganized creatures, pushing back the monstrous horde and regaining the lands that were lost. After many years of fighting, they finally arrived upon the doorstep of the insidious Pit of Nightmares, located in the center of the Bleakness. Tyre and six of his strongest Mages went alone into the Darkness, and met face to face with the worst creature of all: My son, Daellar, now refered to as Sharlan the Specter by mortals everywhere. He had been forever transformed, both in body and soul. Together, Tyre and his allies defeated theSpecter, and imprisoned him beneath the Pit of Nightmares with the Ascending Lights. On returning back to the heartland of Kaltara, Tyre gathered the greatest minds and warriors in Kaltara to form the Wardens of the Seals, an organization whose sole duty was to prevent the release of Sharlan, and to be ready for when he eventually breaks free from his prison."
When Azrial was finished, he summoned a book over to the table in front of you, labeled: "The Stygian War". You stare at it curiously, then at Azrial, who nodded in the direction of the book. You pick it up, and begin to read the words inside...
"...at the end of the Era of Blight, Kaltaran society was at its highest state in several thousand years. It was a time of invention, science, and ingenuity. Populations and technological advances seemed to increase every day, and everything seemed right with their world, or so it would seem. the Wardens at this time became primarily a collection of world leaders who were great Mages and Sages, using their power and wisdom to guide the inhabitants in peace and prosperity. However, they had forgotten entirely thehorrors of the Specter and his monstrous hordes, and this ignorance of their very birth led to their destruction. In search of a new source of power greater than that whichthe Ascending Lights provided, a pair of Wardens created a great magical drill to mine the font of magic...they were too late to discover that the power was that of theSpecter, and that they had just opened his tomb. Out from the Breach, as it was soon called, poured the Nightspawn of the past and the Bleakness along with it. It was during this time that the first Nightchildren began to arise...along with thirteen of the world's greatest Wardens, who later became known as the Heartless."
"What followed was a great conflict known as the Stygian War, which decimated the mortal realm and finally ended when Silvan Stargazer, leader of the forces of Light and the Wardens, led a team of skilled Mages into the Breach in order to seal the Specter and his minions away once more. As is known, Silvan (known as the Lightbinder), successfully banished the Specter to his prison, along with the Heartless...but the seal was imperfect, and came with seven seals of which had been lost to the flows of time. As retaliation for his imprisonment, the Specter placed his wicked taint on the Ascending Light of Astral magic...and drove the Mages of the world insane. Silvan and his companions who went to the Breach were the first to succumb to the madness of the taint, and eventually all of the practicing Mages fell. In their insanity, theMages used their power to create mountains from plains, seas from deserts, annihilate entire cities...this Mage Cataclysm went on for nearly one hundred years until the death of the last Mage. the event later became known as 'Silvan's Folly', and prevented his ascendance to Saintdom. the inter-year period of the Cataclysm is disorganized, and few facts are known on this matter; thus, this tome is incomplete."
You close the book after reading the summary, and you begin to look at Azrial with a new sense of dread. However, more questions kept going through your mind: 'Why is he showing me this?' 'What does he want with me?' 'How does this have anything to do with me?'. You ask the first question, and he smiles gently.
"Well, it is because I do believe you will be connected to Kaltara's salvation through fate, young one. You see...I can see the strings of destiny tied onto you. However, I cannot say in what way you are connected to it all. Also, I am unsure as to whether you will be born in the time of need once more, or afterwards. Although, I will say this: you are linked to far more than you believe...and you may be the one to prevent the world's destruction. One question you may ask is 'Why me?"...well, I cannot answer that, for I do not control the tides of destiny, I just connect them as I see fit. There is one more book you need to read...one that is as important as the other."
Another book drifts over to the table, resting on top of the previous one. the title was in a fancy form of writing, and said "The History of the Dragoran Empire". You pick it up and begin to read the first chapter.
"...Before our glorious empire was created, Kaltara was in a state of conflict. Civil wars, bloody successions, and petty national rivalries divided the land, with Lumen'dor being the only sanctuary from the fighting. Despite the chaos, one nation still flourished. Located on the western shore of Kaltara, our great mother kingdom of Dragora grew from the land that used to belong to the mythical Rai'zan of old. A new king had been raised, one with the ambition to unite the world under one ruler. We know him as the First Emperor, but he was known back then as Ashmire Drake. Once a simple peasant, he was chosen by fate to rise to power and lead the Dragoran nation to glory. Among us, he was courageous, kind, and selfless, while his enemies knew him to be crafty, strong, and ruthless. For years he amassed his armies, waiting forthe right time to begin his impending invasion. With his allies at his back, he conquered many of the nations to the east with ease by using either force or persuasion."
"By the end of his conquests, nearly all of Kaltara belonged to him, and he was crowned High King. It was then that he turned his attention onto Lumen'dor, last bastion ofthe Wardens. Growing up to have severe distrust in anything that has to do with magic, he knew he had to destroy the Wardens if he was to make the land perfect. thesiege lasted ten years until his death from a crippling poison. Seeking vengeance for the death of his father, the eldest of Ashmire's sons, Beryllan, led a final assault against Lumen'dor and broke through the enchanted walls. Once inside, the treacherous Wardens were slaughtered until the Archwarden at the time, the Lady Aerysia, surrendered and was executed for the use of forbidden Astral magic and the crime of slaying Ashmire Drake. Once Lumen'dor was torn to the ground, Beryllan returned to the mountain stronghold of Ashen Gate and named himself Emperor of Kaltara. At the end of his reign, each speck of land was under Imperial rule."
You place the book down, somehow knowing that it was all you needed to read, and you look up to see Azrial with his back turned toward you, gazing intently into the unnatural fire.
"...so now you know what you must know. I have given this information to you so that you can forge your own destiny. In Kaltara's current era, Mages are suppressed and controlled...they are despised for their natural affinity to magic, and they struggle to prevent any magical contact so that they could live. It is truly a miserable time...but perhaps you, or someone like you, can fix it."
Azrial turns to you and gazes deep into your eyes. You could feel him penetrating to the very depths of your spirit, reading it. After a moment, Azrial nods and smiles once more.
"I see now that I made the right choice. Go, now...go and become a part of the world once more. I will be watching, and guiding, you and all that are like you."
You feel yourself get lighter and lighter, with your vision slowly turning dark, and as you begin to return to the living world you hear Azrial's final whisper resound in your mind countless times:
"...do not forget who you are, or who you will be, Child of Fate. Whether you be of the Darkness or the Light, know this; that there is never an end...only another beginning."
It is with those last few words that you feel yourself fade away entirely, enveloped in a wet warmth. A light shines in your vision, leading the way out of the tunnel of darkness in which you had laid in. You feel yourself being dragged out into the world once more...the only sounds reaching your ears being that of your very own cries as the light welcomes you into your new life.
(This will be the first of a series of posts to prepare for the Opening of the RP)
~3500 years ago, the Sandspire Desert~
The solemn man trudged through the grayish dunes, the skies still ashen with the latest cataclysm to disrupt the world. Dust...it was everywhere these days. the dust of the previously known world, scattered and torn by the actions of mortals and gods alike. Not that it hadn't committed its own atrocities...hardly that. Every grain of Kaltaran earth had been subjected to the blood of Man and other mortals. Nothing was innocent in this god-forsaken continent...nothing at all. This desert...it had once been a bountiful forest, filled with life. Now, none of that remained.
"...But then again, I caused it all, didn't I?"
A voice spoke softly inside his head, but he ignored it, intent on only going forward through the choking sand. Indeed, it was his fault...all of it. It had been his arrogance, his inability to let go...that had broken Kaltara. He was known by many names; Prince of the Dawn, Destroyer of Shadows, King of the Light...but the name every creature on the continent knew him by was Silvan Stargazer, the Lightbinder. It had been his mastery of the legendary Ascending Lights that allowed him to defeat and imprison the dreaded Specter, former demi-god and child of Astral Magus, father of Mankind. Memories stirred in his head...what had happened that day? It had been years since then. He knew he did something...horrible...a terrible accident, but could not recall it. A madness had eaten away at his mind, that was obvious, but where did it come from? He paused to contemplate on his mental state...he could almost feel it...-
"...Look at you, Silvan. Look at what you have become. I could almost pity you...almost."
The voice dragged Silvan out of his thoughts, as he lifted his head to see who had spoken. Just a few meters away stood an incredibly dark figure, whose black attire conflicted with the pale desert landscape. Although there was a whirlwind blowing through the area, picking up dust and sand, the equine-shaped entity's clothing seemed unaffected, simply hanging there. Red eyes met his, and Silvan blinked calmly. "Oh...hello there. Hang on a moment...Araenia! We have a guest! Araenia? Oh, bother...she must be off with the whelps." He looked around, calling for his wife and thinking himself to be in the palace he had once lived in...a palace now destroyed. "I don't know where she's gone off to...Araenia! Where are you?" The figure made a sound of disgust, listening to the insane Warden before him. "...Has the madness taken you so far, Silvan Stargazer? Can you truly not remember what happened? What you did?!" The figure removed his hood, revealing a stern, bronze-tinted face with short-cut black streams of hair dangling down his head. The fellow Mage sneered, shaking his head. "...Fine. I'll help you, Silvan...help you see what you have done to yourself." Seizing the magical energies around him, his body radiated a darkly-tinted aura as he wove a few streams of Water and Air, molded them together with an Astral binding, and laid the healing weave over Silvan's head. The aura of channeling magic winked out from his body, the glow fading as quickly as it came.
Silvan blinked again, taking in his surroundings once more. A puzzled expression grew on his face. "Wh-where am I...? A desert...? Wasn't I at the-" He cut off his sentence when his eyes fell on the man before him, and his face quickly took on an angry tint. "YOU! How dare you show me your face, Betrayer!" The man...Coprenicus, Silvan recalled...chuckled harshly. "Ah...finally you remember. Never in my dreams had I thought my own student would be reduced to such a...disgrace. You should have joined me when you have the chance, Silvan...even I cannot hold your madness at bay for long."
"Forget it! I'd sooner die than serve you, or the Specter!"
"Then die you shall! I came not to save you, Silvan, but to watch you suffer! Watch you SQUIRM! Remember what atrocities you have committed, fool!"
As if they had been slammed into his head with a mallet, the memories finally flowed into Silvan...memories of the blood-covered faces of his children, his wife; the destroyed ruins of his palace home, and the remnants of the city that had surrounded it. "No..." He shook his head in denial, his eyes wide with fear and despair. "No...no...no...no no no no NO!" Out of reflex, Silvan grabbed hold of the twisted...newly tainted Astral magic that hung before him. He suddenly began to take it in, his body taking on a fierce, bright light as he drew in more and more of the magical energy. Coprenicus took a step back, snarling; "Fool! You're drawing too much in! You will destroy yourself!
"I'm sorry, Evening...
It is all my fault...
I'm coming, my love...
Please...do not hate me..."
As the magic started to burst out of Silvan's body, Coprenicus disappeared without a trace. the intense magic continued to pile up, reaching unearthly levels. With burning tears going down his cheeks, Silvan screamed out into the grayish skies above. "FORGIVE ME, CREATOR!" As the words escaped his lips...the world became an inferno. the land around him broiled and rumbled, rising under fountains of fire and lava, the dunes around turned to dust as the earth below grew, rising higher and higher into the sky, as if to pierce the heavens. As the cataclysmic scene winded down...what stayed in Silvan's place was a massive mountain with a jagged peak, that which would later be named the Bindmount. The Lightbinder was no more, and with his death came a surge of untold destruction and unstable energy. Thus he will be blamed for the sundering of the world...and hatred of his existence will continue on for thousands of years. The Weaver had spun him out of the loom of Time...for now.
“So shall He be reborn, on a miracle that shall save a union born of sweat and tears.
His cries will split the earth as though it were glass, and the skies will be torn by the thunder of his wails.
With the Dawn, His coming shall shatter all bonds and oaths, for He will be the herald of the End.
He will be of the old blood and the new blood, and will bear the Star of Creation on His spirit.
With His Awakening will come the fury of the King of Lies, and banish Him from His destiny.
From the urging of the Darkness, will He make his first steps into the storms of Fate.
When He Who Brings The Light discovers His strength, the Eye of Eternity will open it's veiled gaze.
And with the power of the Divinity shall He shine like a beacon for the children of Light...
Woe to the souls of the fragmented world; weep, and pray for your salvation!"
– Translated from the Ancient Dialect text: The Condemnation of Solaria (Prophecies of the Lightbinder), Anonymous Author.
~ On the Plains of Ashen Gate, circa 2732 I.E. (Twenty Years Ago) ~
The screams of the dying met the young soldier’s ears as he lay crouched behind a mound of dug-up dirt within one of the many trenches made amidst the battlefield, the earth shaking beneath his body from artillery fire from both the Imperial Army and the invading Hikarri savages. For three years, the Dragoran Empire had fought a losing war against the fierce Hikarri warriors of the northern wastes beyond the Glacialtooth Mountains, all because General Marrowbone had cut down some tree. To the soldier named Asther, it was a foolish reason to wage war. Currently, he was laying down low to avoid the sights of any Hikarri who dared venture so far into the Imperial frontlines…which they most likely would, considering their deadly reputation. His black-and-gray officer’s uniform was stained from mud, blood, and sweat, and an odor of death and decay existed in the air; it was no different anywhere else in this Light-accursed dying ground. Slowly, he raised his head over one of the trench’s ledges, his sharp, dark-brown eyes searching the pocketed, dead landscape ahead for any signs of trouble. That trouble had found him.
Less than a few dozen meters away lay a small squad of perhaps three Hikarri spear-fighters, and they had an Ice Maiden with them. The men wore thick fur suits and leather armor, along with dull black boots and white masks on their faces. Everything about them screamed of the icy origins of which they came from. They carried wooden bucklers to ignore the electrical currents of the standard Imperial shockspear, and they carried their own unique assortment of weapons crafted from some never-melting ice material; they were a walking enigma in this land of warmth and green. Seeing them sent a deep chill down his spine, fear gripping his heart in its vice-like grip. These Hikarri fought like demonic psychopaths…almost no one could stand against a Hikarri in a one-on-one fight. Their skill with their ice spears had become legendary; an army of weapon-masters. Stilling the terror that had crept into his muscles, he reached for the stormbow at his side, grabbing it by the rubbery grip and lifting the powerful crossbow up and over the dirt barricade. Slowing his breathing, Asther focused the iron sight on the chest of the Ice Maiden…if he had any chance of survival, he had to kill her. Their ‘ice sages’ were perhaps their greatest weapon. As the turbines in the stormbow readied themselves for the shot, he grabbed an electro-bolt from his quiver and set it within the latch of the ranged weapon.
Asther grimaced as the turbines clicked; a sign that it was ready. Aligning the vertical sight at the Frost Maiden’s left breast, he laid a finger over the trigger. He hated killing women…but he had to do this. As his finger rested on the trigger, a loud horn echoed from far off, followed by another horn, and another that was closer by. The Hikarri raised their heads and looked to the way they had come. Asther kept his finger on the trigger, but hesitated in firing the deadly stormbow bolt. That moment of hesitation had saved his life. One of the Hikarri, the Maiden no doubt, raised an ice spear and shouted loudly into the sky. “Aisha Mor’kalar Tisaidin! The Treefaller has awoken from the Dream!” In unison, the Hikarri let out cries of victory and lifted their spears, darting off in the direction off the enemy frontlines with their bucklers beating against their spears as they ran. The sight puzzled Asther beyond belief; what did they mean? He had heard the name they called Marrowbone before…the ‘Treefaller’…but was it true? Was the general dead? A swift rush of anger blazed through him, and he lifted the stormbow once more; he might as well take one of those heathens out for the fallen commander. Aiming once more for the fading back of the Ice Maiden, Asther snarled as he prepared to pull the trigger…but then a hand reached out and lowered his stormbow’s barrel to aim at the ground. Asther turned to face the person who had done so, rage on his face.
The sight that greeted him was a short but stout Dwarf, who wore a battered but still usable azure and near-black suit of armor that bore the Imperial Raven symbol on the chest plate and shoulders. Realization appeared in Asther’s eyes as they rested on the Dwarf; the creature was a Nightingale…the Emperor’s sworn elite soldier. The Nightingale shook his head, causing the long gray beard on his face to swing slightly from side to side. “Easy lad, th’ war’s over. There be no more need for slaughter.” Asther froze at the warrior’s words, his gaze peering at the Dwarf as though he were mad. “Wh-what do you mean, ‘the war is over’?! Why are they falling back? We can’t possibly believe that they are done! They want to destroy the Empire!” Once more, the Nightingale made a negative response, pointing to dozens of flags that were being hung high over the massive crystalline walls of Ashen Gate, far to the south. The flags bore black and gold stripes; a mass enemy retreat. But…why would they retreat? The Dwarf soon answered his question. “They got what they came fer. They got Marrowbone, they did…th’ bastards. It was all they wanted all along, I suppose. C’mon, lad…ye must be exhausted. Let others handle the Hikarri fer now…ye need rest.”
Asther nodded dumbly as he followed the Dwarf, his mind numbed by what he had just heard. Lifting his head, he noticed one of the massive glacial sky-fortresses off to the north, suspended high above the ground by use of Air magic and mechanical engines. However, the fierce, twisted flying bunkers were not what got his attention; he had seen enough of those. No…it was what was underneath the soaring icy transport. A single corpse hung suspended by steel chains beneath the sky-fortress, swinging lightly in the breeze for all to see. The flag of Marrowbone was impaled right through the body, which proved the identity of the victim; the general. Bringing his hand and curling his index and middle fingers to make a sign to ward off evil, Asther shuddered at the sight and turned his back on it...he wanted to go home, back to his native Promise, back to his wife and daughter. Perhaps, finally, he could do so. Without another word being exchanged between the Nightingale and the Imperial Officer, the two traversed the pocketed terrain of the plains in the direction of the Crystal Walls, willing to leave behind the scene of death and destruction that surrounded them.
~ The Oracle Chamber, within the Imperial Palace of Ashen Gate, circa 2732 I.E. ~
Blasted fools! The Seer thought venomously within the depths of her mind, her piercing violet eyes penetrating the quiet, robed figures in front of her. She was an ancient, crooked old Elven rahmane; the first of her kind and the eldest of them. Not many could say that they lived for over two thousand years, with the exception of the Baraki. Yet these ignorant pests still underestimate me! They are whelps compared to me! Sitting in a hand-crafted golden chair with silk cushions and lining, the Seer was as comfortable as she could be…except when she was in her bed. She was clothed in a marvelously intricate blue gown and had rose blossoms in her flowing aged silver hair, and despite her age, she was truly quite young in appearance. She looked no older than a Human woman in her late twenties, the only sign of great age laid in her demeanor, hair, and eyes…especially her eyes; they had seen the rise and fall of many great and poor Emperors and Empresses. They had witnessed the birth of the Black Emperor, Argentus, and his death. But most of all, her eyes had seen the inevitable destruction of the Dragoran Empire; her true-sight was a curse and a blessing…it made her valuable to each and every Dragoran ruler. She was a legend; no sul’jin had been able to control her since her earliest days, but she still wore the Soulshackle’s silver brace around her throat. Now, it seemed only to be a permanent piece of jewelry.
One of the two robed figures, a rather young but extremely handsome young man with short, pure-black hair and bright green eyes, stepped forward and rested his hands on the Seer’s mahogany desk, a frown on his face. “I care little for your schemes, Falinthriel. You are lucky I do not bring you to the Emperor in chains! If he knew that you were plotting against his coming Heir, he would-“ The man paused at the Seer’s slight grin on her ageless face, those mysterious eyes glittering with amusement. “Stamhir will do nothing to me. We both know that his heart is too soft for him to harm me…especially considering how attached his Empress and I are. Remember your place, Jialdin…and listen well. I am not plotting against the soon-to-be Heir…I am protecting him. He is the first male Heir to be born into the Imperial Family in four hundred years! Many would seek to kill him simply out of fear for another Argentus; some would do so simply out of tradition.” The man grimaced and removed himself from the Seer’s desk, folding his arms across his torso. “…then what is this plan of yours, rahmane? What am I to do to aid the Prince-Heir?” A genuine smile reached the Seer’s face at the young man’s words; things were finally piecing together quite nicely. Sitting up from her table and chair, she gracefully turned her back on Jialdin and the other robed figure and stared into the churning flames in her fireplace. She waited a couple of moments, carefully weighing her words, before responding.
“…I would have you become the Prince-Heir’s sole protector. You are to be his Captain of the Guard and his mentor. Many know you for your skill as a Nightingale, Jialdin…but none know you as the philosopher and teacher you truly are. Zaire, you have been awfully silent…do you have doubts?”Her last question was aimed directly at the other cloaked person, who flinched as though startled by the sudden call of her name. She was a young Human woman, with waist-long brown hair and sky blue eyes; a Sage, and a very prominent one. To be so youthful and already know two elemental magics was quite the impressive feat. Clearing her throat, Zaire spoke with a voice which seemed to have a melody within it. “I...Lady Falinthriel, I cannot help but feel hesitant in involving ourselves in the lives of the Imperial Family, much less the Heir to the Empire. It is not out of concern for my safety; but for the safety of others. We both know that events like this give rise to conspiracy theories…and then eventually lead to mass purges or genocides. We haven’t had anything such as that since the Argentus Insurrection, and I would hate to start another one now, with the Prince-Heir to be born this eve.” The Seer listened intently as the Sage spoke her fears; they were all completely valid, and no doubt needed clarity. However, the Seer felt that this was more important than a potential purge.
Turning toward the two Humans, she opened her mouth as if to say something, but stiffened suddenly. The Seer’s muscles locked together and her eyes rolled to the back of her head; it was one of her infamous visions. Rushing forward, Jialdin was there to catch the elder Elf as she fell into his grasp, shaking like an epileptic. The Seer’s mouth was open in a silent scream, tears streaming down her face as she felt the vision flow into her. The sight horrified Zaire; the Seer had never had a visionary reaction such as this before. When the Seer finally began to speak, it came out in a harsh, agonized groan. “…I see fire and lightning…I can feel the blood of the world seep into my hands! The hand of Darkness extends itself over Kaltara! Dear Creator, Sharlan will return! The Darkest Days are coming…they are coming…no! No! He cannot be! The Lightbinder, he is reborn! His cries shatter the sky with thunder, and his tears burn the earth! HE IS REBORN!” The Seer’s prophecy had risen to a terrified screech at the end; a scream that would awaken the dead. As the vision ended, the Seer went limp in Jialdin’s firm arms and became completely still. Jialdin looked down at the Seer with wide, shocked eyes. She was not breathing. The Seer was dead. Laying the Seer’s body down gently, Jialdin stood up and glanced at Zaire, seeing the similarly shocked expression that he had just possessed. Walking over to her, he gently held her arms and peered into her blue eyes, his gaze holding a severity that matched his new expression.
“…Zaire, listen to me. What we just heard…we cannot tell anyone else. You know as well as I that every vision the Seer had come true, so we must treat this one as all the others. We…we have to find the Lightbinder, Zaire. If the Nightchildren get their hands on him, they might kill him…or worse. Zaire, listen to me!” The Sage nodded silently, her mouth tight and her eyes filled to the brim with fear. The Specter…he is returning! The Lightbinder is reborn! The end of the world was coming; it was more than she could handle…but handle it she must. She was a Sage of the High Blood House of Terdas…she had to do this! Her eyes drifted over to the corpse of Falinthriel, and a shudder passed through her. Whatever the Seer had seen, it had shocked the ancient woman enough to still her heart. “So…what do you suggest we do then, Jialdin? We still have a duty to the Prince-Heir…” “I will handle that. He may be a candidate for this ‘Lightbinder’ business…but you, however, will have to search outside of the Palace for him; outside Ashen Gate, most likely. You are a High Blood noble; you have connections…I do not, as a Nightingale.” The woman returned her gaze to Jialdin before murmuring her agreement. It had to be done. “What do we do with her? We cannot just leave her here.” Zaire gestured to the body of the Seer stiffly, wary of the famous rahmane, even when the Elf was dead. Jialdin looked down at the body and pursed his lips in thought. “…I will just have to display her to the Emperor. No sense in hiding her from him or the Empress.” Kneeling down, the Nightingale lifted the body with his arms and cradled it like a sleeping child. The Seer’s warmth was still there, but it wouldn’t be for long…he pitied the way she had died.
“You had best leave, Zaire. It would prove unseemly for one such as you to be in the same room as a dead rahmane. Go; if I don’t survive the night, at least you will.” The Sage said nothing as she retreated away to the wide oak doors at the front entrance of the Oracle Chamber. Sending one last glance behind at Jialdin, Zaire opened the doors and ducked away in search of a way out of the Imperial Palace. Now that Jialdin was alone, his thoughts buzzed with the possibilities that were present with the Seer’s latest vision: the existence of a mythological God of evil proven, the inevitable return of the infamous Lightbinder, and perhaps the fall of the long-standing Dragoran Empire…a shame; a real shame. Shaking his head in disbelief, Jialdin carried the corpse out of the room, prepared to meet any reprimands or punishments his Emperor might inflict upon him.
~ On the balcony of the Emperor’s Chambers, within the Imperial Palace of Ashen Gate, circa 2732 I.E. ~
Stamhir stood silently at the northern edge of his wide aerial porch outside of his Chambers, staring off into the distant dark-blue sky through his dark-brown eyes. His gaze scanned the horizon for any more Hikarri sky-fortresses before lowering onto the massive city below. Ashen Gate; the pride of the Dragoran Empire, the largest city on the continent and home to millions of people…had almost become a victim to the savages of the far Wastes. ‘Savage’ was an odd label for any of the Hikarri, for if anything, they were far from uncivilized. In Stamhir’s imagination, he could have seen the untold destruction, towering fires, and massive corpse piles that would have appeared had the Hikarri pushed their advance any further. Once again, the Emperor was glad he had thrown that fool Marrowbone out of the city to be taken by the fearsome warriors; it had saved perhaps hundreds of thousands of lives. The steam-factories were still in operation, pumping out weapons and vehicles for the Invincible Crystal Army at a rapid rate…even as he watched his city in motion, his generals were leading the effort in harrying the Hikarri out of Imperial lands and off toward the Glacialtooth Mountains from whence they came.
Today, the Emperor wore his Imperial Commander’s uniform; a white coat and trousers with gold-silk cuffs and multi-colored war medals imbedded on his torso. Silver rank tassels hung on his shoulders, and the Imperial Ravens were stitched into his coat’s collar. As for his features, Stamhir had thick shoulder-length black hair, a well-trimmed beard, and a muscular build. His face held similar features to that of a hawk, and the average look to his ears and eyes pronounced his Human origins. Like all of the previous Emperors in the past four hundred years, Stamhir had been chosen by the Empress as her husband and assumed the throne to rule and provide an Heiress…he himself had been but a common soldier, not even of the Low Blood, when the Empress had picked him. At the time, it had been a shock and he was inexperienced; but after thirty years, he had become competent in both military and civil affairs. Another oddity would occur during their rule: for the first time since the fall of the Black Emperor, Argentus, a male Heir to the Eternal Throne was to be born this very evening. Even now, Stamhir stood out on this balcony only to wait for the news of the birth of his newest child. The importance of this event instilled nervous tensions within the Emperor, causing his fingers to tap against the metallic railing that covered the edge of the balcony.
Stamhir’s attention was taken away from his thoughts and the city before him when he heard the feminine voice of the under-maid speak from behind him. “…you’re Majesty, the Empress, may she live forever, desires your presence for the final stages of her birth.” The Emperor turned to look at the under-maid; she wore the standard liveries of the Palace tov’kin, but she bore a Wing of Azrial on her right breast…she must be one of the midwives. Taking his hands off the steel railing, he strode past the under-maid and gave her a thankful pat on her shoulder in his passing. The two Nightingales posted within his chambers, wearing their blue and dark-green armor that glimmered from the light given off by the thunderorbs on the walls, brought a fist to their hearts in salute as they swiftly opened the set of large graywood doors for him. As he passed through, the pair followed him in orderly succession, only to be followed by two more Nightingales who were stationed outside the doors. In a box-like formation, they escorted Stamhir down the crystalline halls of the Imperial Palace with determined expressions behind their red-plumed, insect-like helmets. It took the procession several minutes to arrive outside the Palace infirmary, in which the Empress would be in labor. Making swift hand signals to his Nightingales, the Emperor moved to open the small door that would lead into his betrothed’s birthing room. However, hearing her screams of pain through the thin door made him hesitate. Taking a deep breath, Stamhir gathered his wits and entered, shutting the door behind him in a rapid motion.
On the right-hand side of the room, the Empress Tulin was laid down against her bed, her legs spread and her face contorted in pain. Even in agony and fury, the half-Elven Empress displayed a beauty and grace that none other could possess for Stamhir. Approaching cautiously, he stood on her left side and traded a glance with the elderly First Maid, who bore a worried expression. Something was wrong…was the child unhealthy, even after all the cleansing sessions with the Clerics of Azrial? The fear was infectious. Tulin grasped Stamhir’s open right hand tightly and screamed, the contractions giving her intense pain responses. All the Emperor could do was watch patiently, whispering sweet promises in the ear of his beloved as he stroked her golden hair. The scene went on for what seemed like hours, before the baby was finally delived. However, a bizarre thing happened; the baby was not crying. Why was it not crying?! The First Maid cradled the child in her arms, a sorrowful expression on her face as she whispered despairingly, “…a stillborn, you’re Majesties…I am sorry. The Prince-Heir is dead.” The announcement chilled Stamhir’s body, drawing the breath out of him and causing his mind to swarm with questions: why? What had happened? Did someone poison the child? Did the Clerics lie about the child’s health? Fury welled up inside the Emperor, followed swiftly by despair, and that was eventually replaced by sorrow.
The Empress stared at her First Maid as if she had spoken blasphemy, her blue eyes wide in petulance and rage. Then, all of a sudden, Tulin expression changed and she began to weep. Hushing his wife gently, he drew the agonized woman close, attempting to comfort her while trying to hide his own emotional pain. Locking eyes with the First Maid, the Emperor’s voice took on a deep, dark cold that made the elderly woman flinch. “Erith, go dispose of the stillborn. Make sure none see his body, and then return here.” The First Maid’s eyes expanded in fear of the intimidating ruler, bowing as she rushed to obey. Wrapping the dead child in the white rag she had held it in, Erith rushed out of the chamber to do as her Emperor commanded.
~ Storeroom #12, the Imperial Palace of Ashen Gate, circa 2732 I.E. ~
Erith glanced down the halls at her right and left before entering the storeroom, intent on making sure none had followed her. The storeroom was dimly lit with only a single thunderorb, whose light was a pale yellow and flickered on and off repeatedly. The chamber was mostly empty with the exception of a single table, to which the First Maid drifted over to with a frightened expression. After opening the bundle in her arms which held the corpse of the stillborn Prince-Heir, she laid the body on the center of the table before stepping back. Erith had been commanded to bring the dead child in here by her true master, not the Emperor…in truth, she feared no one more than her current leader. Her aged eyes peered into the darkness around; this was where he had said to meet her…where was he? As if to answer her, a tall black figure emerged from the shadows, garbed entirely in black robes and a low-hanging cowl. The only thing visible about the man was the pair of amber, almost copper-colored eyes that stared at her with such malevolence that she shivered from deep within her bones. The man approached the table, looked down at the baby, then chuckled; a harsh sound similar to that of a snake slithering on dead leaves. “You have done well, Erith. The poison I gave you worked, I see. Now, we can begin…”
Without any warning, the figure moved his robe over the dead body. As he drew his garment back, all that remained was the table; the corpse had disappeared. Erith fell down to her knees and placed her forehead on the ground, speaking submissively to the man. “Great Master, I have done as you asked, but…if I may, why did you wish the Heir to be dead?” Erith knew the dangers of asking a question of a member of the Council of the Return, but she needed to know. The man turned his copper orbs on her before letting out another chortle, moving his black-gloved hands into the center folds of his robes. “Ah…you are bold, Erith. I respect that. But you are mistaken; the Prince-Heir is not dead…he is fixed, cured. Another ‘Prince’ will take his place; a Prince who I have deemed as a worthy adversary in the near future.” As he finished his statement, he pulled out another bundle from his robes…it moved! It was then that Erith heard the crying of a babe, and she gasped as the figure laid the new child down on the table. What was this?! Was it the same child? The man answered as if reading her thoughts.
“He is different, I assure you…but his new parents will not be able to tell the difference. Take him to them, and tell them that it was a miracle…that he came back to life on his own. Go, now, and do as I command!” Without waiting for her response, the man drifted back into the darkness…disappearing entirely. All Erith could do was stare at the child, her lips trembling as she lifted it up. Whoever this child was, it was incredibly important to the Nightchildren…incredibly important to the Council’s designs. She could kill him, perhaps, and prevent whatever they had planned…but she knew she would not do so. Drawing the babe into her arms, she whimpered and ran to the door’s entrance, opening the wood door and rushing off down the hall, not even bothering to look back. Something great was going to happen; Erith could feel it in the depths of her tainted soul.
(Here lies the beginning of the Kaltaran Chronicles: the year is 2752 I.E. (Imperial Era), twenty years after the events described in this post. The Dragoran Empire is once again rebuilt and at peace, and the Festival of Lights has begun. From all over Kaltara, people of all races and cultures pour into the Imperial Capital of Ashen Gate to revel in the splendor that is the Empire and to honor the coronation of the Prince-Heir, Rubyn Dragora; first Prince in four hundred years. For ten days, the celebration hails the anniversary of the creation of the Ascending Lights and commemorates the passing of the Gods. However, this celebration will be unlike anything ever seen before. An epic battle has begun, but the question is…will you fight for the Light, the Darkness, or simply for survival? Will you let the world be changed into an eternal nightmare, or become the paradise of everyone’s dreams? All will be known…when the sands of time finally cease their churning.)
Last edited by a moderator:
