While a number of the submissions I've made to the latest Planeswalker contest are things I might want to come back to for an M:EM story, the latest is... well, though the formatting stinks and a few things need to be changed based on insights, I've already got a story for them.
To make a proper submission though, I need to have more data. This post will gain things as they come
A Writer’s Guide to Taramir So, you want to write a story, at least partially, set in Taramir? There are a few things to remember about Taramir.
General Precepts 1) Inaction Hurts. More damage is done to Taramir by people not doing anything than by anything that is actively done. Could the fate of the world have been averted if the Lorekeepers were open and promoting learning for all its history? Perhaps not, but lives were surely lost in the future because no one acted to save them in the past. When people actually do something, the effect is at worst negligible; building the Grand Fortress preserved millions to the end of the world. Nobles failing to look beyond its walls may have damned as many.
2) The Downward Spiral. Taramir is doomed by Canon, and one can see the writing on the walls before then. Especially in the Waning, there’s always the last of something, and that which is lost will not be recaptured. Thus, the best one may usually hope for is “It will last for my time.
3) Time Matters. As a world with all its history, beginning to end, numbered, Time is critical to Taramir. Age, year – even hour and day. Part of the horror of the Age of Darkness is the loss of time itself, a threat of unknown eternities.
The Age of Myth Taramir’s Age of Myth is one I haven’t really addressed. Suffice to say, it’s what it says on the tin. The Age of Myth is big, a time of ‘gods’ and demons, from the Elder Dragons of Taramir (of which Vox was the last), to the first shining heroes of the Elves. Humans are barbaric bordering on animalistic in this era. Elves are civilized sapients, but lack reading and writing.
The Age of Forests An age of peace and growth, but more than that an Age of Mystery. It might seem interesting to take on some of the unfixed facts of the Age of Forests: how powerful were the Lorekeepers? What actually ended the age? For that, I have to say that I probably won’t approve a story, so talk to me about what you want to do BEFORE you sit down to write, say, an epic of elven civil war that will ultimately meet with a veto.
The Age of Heroes This is the Age of Taramir that most resembles traditional fantasy. There are a lot of stories that could be written for the Age of Heroes, but at the same time, you need to ask yourself: Why Taramir’s Age of Heroes and not some other plane, some other time?
The Age of Empire This is the age that lends itself most to politics and intrigue. Of course, you can’t destroy the Imperium of Vox early, but it surely had its share or internal strife, succession crisis, and the like. A human nation doesn’t last over a thousand years without it!
The Waning Age For the Waning Age, the first thing you need to do is figure out what Year of Light your story is set in. That determines the state of the world: What nations exist, how dead the plane is, and the like. I’ll be happy to answer questions about this if the timeline doesn’t make it clear.
The Age of Darkness The Age of Darkness is Taramir, only more so: The death spiral is tighter, time is all the more important for its absence, and inaction is as troublesome as always. The one note I have for this is similar to the Age of Forests note: I will not brook a tale that defines the “colossal things in the darkness”, or even confirms their existence as real things, beyond reasonable doubt. If your narrator is deliberately unreliable, go for it.
Year of Light - A calendar devised by the Lorekeepers of Voor during the first Years of Darkness. Its "Year 0" was extrapolated to be the first moment of recorded history, though it is unclear whether the date represents the creation of the world, the emergence of sentience, or merely a time of myth.
The first age of the Years of Light are known as the Age of Myth, a period that ends with the foundation of the Lorekeepers and the invention of writing in Year of Light 6982. The exact years preceding written records were derived from oral histories and genealogies by the first Lorekeepers.
The next five thousand or so Years of Light are known as the Age of Forests – elves were the dominant sapient species, and a great elven empire spread across the world, promoting the growth of deep woods that covered much of the land. The records of the Age of Forests’ ending did not survive into the Waning – however, an account by the heretical Lorekeeper Tala posited that the Lorekeepers themselves were responsible, uplifting humans from barbarism and teaching them magic, the result of which was a devastating war that burned many of the magically-grown forests and sent elven political power into a downward spiral.
Certainly, the end of the Age of Forests in Year of Light 12104 does coincide with the rise of humanity, and there is plenty of evidence for a magical war that shattered the elven empire and greatly reduced the tree cover over the world, but the standard assumption of the Lorekeepers was that it was more likely an elven civil war than a human uprising.
The next three thousand years give or take, were deemed the Age of Heroes. No single great power held sway over the world, and the various races of the world – humans, elves, and the like – mingled. The records that survived this age to the Age of Darkness were much better than the records of the Age of Forests.
As the Age of Heroes continued, humans began to gain an upper hand. The elves were pushed into a few remaining forest retreats, while lands were tamed and settled. The death of the last Great Dragon in 15925 (though dragonkind itself persisted until the Age of Darkness) is seem as symbolic end of the age, as within a few years the human who slew the creature became the first Emperor of Vox
The Age of Empire came next, and represents a time period where the Imperium of Vox was the world’s hegemonic power. The Imperium ruled over the vast majority of the world’s land mass, and even those places it did not directly control, such as the northern tribes and elves of the great forest, at times paid tribute to the Imperium.
The Waning Age began in the Year of Light 16727, before the Imperium properly fell. The sun began to notably fade. The chaotic years of the Waning Age are recorded in more detail below. In brief, the Imperium crumbled into four nations, which were driven increasingly to isolation and barbarism as the world’s death throes continued.
The Age of Darkness began after the Last Dawn in 17413, and persisted for approximately 200 years before the end of the world. Some of its major events (mostly related to the Lorekeepers themselves) are recounted below
~Timeline of the Waning Sun~
16727 - The Waning of the Sun is first noticed. The Imperium of Vox is the world's great power, controlling most of the southern Known Lands, with "Barbarian" tribes ruling the northern expanses between the empire and the hidden University of the Lorekeepers.
16751 - The Lorekeepers of Voor leave their posts in the Imperial court and the lesser courts of the land due to political turbelence. After this date, they observe the world exclusivley via magic and only depart the University of the Lorekeepers to find spouses -- even when peace and stability reign for a time, they maintain their isolation, fading into myth as far as the rest of the world is concerned. The number of full Lorekeepers stands at twenty-one, but is subject to fluctuation.
16754 - The first civil war in the Imperium is crushed
16783 - The second Vox Civil War begins
16790 - Confident in their triumph, the rebel faction fractures, its leaders turning on each other over spoils yet to be won. This buys the Imperial faction time to stabalize.
16802 - The senile emperor of the Vox directs most of his troops northward. Though successful at slaughtering the largely peaceful nomadic peoples, the distraction creates an opening for the squabbling rebels to begin tearing apart the Imperium in earnest.
16811 - After a long and bloody struggle, Vox falls. The remnants of the empire shatter into four new kingdoms: Efaruna, Tolkas, Dorias, and Vishtal. The four kingdoms, weary of their long war with the Imperium, sign a peace treaty with each other
16825 - Construction of the Grand Fortress begins. Vishtal provides most of the manpower, but the site chosen is on Efaruna soil, giving that nation claim to the Fortress as well
16838 - A renegade Lorekeeper of Voor who abandoned the order to seek temporal power weds the Crown Prince of Tolkas. Her dream of using the knowledge of the Lorekeepers to bring peace and prosperity to the dying world is shattered when the order burns the knowledge of how to find their University from her mind, along with many other secrets. Even so, Tolkas profits greatly from her remaining wisdom.
16912 - The main structure of the Grand Fortress is completed. Approximatley ten million souls retreat inside, representing members of all four nations, though Efaruna and Vishtal are the best represented by far.
16957 - The government of Efaruna takes up residence in the Grand Fortress.
16958 - To retain a measure of control of the Grand Fortress, the Vishtal government makes its new home there as well.
16969 - Disgusted by the growing indifference of their governments and the isolation of the same inside the Grand Fortress, a visionary leads a group of Efaruna and Vishtal citizens to found a new though small nation in the Emerald Peaks. They dedicate themselves to green magic, and finding a way to restore their world.
~17000 - Volcanic upheval decimates the nation of Tolkas and ruins most of its major cities. The survivors flee north, into lands never held by the Vox Imperium, which they name the Plains of Hope. Finding good land and bedrock marbled with seams of useful coal, New Tolkas quickly burgeons
17018 - The caverns beneath the Grand Fortress are finally dug out completley and magically sown. There is now enough "arable" land inside the fortress that no resident ever needs leave its walls or recieve aid from the outside.
17050 - The sun now rises red, and is dim enough to gaze at directly without harm, though only just.
~17100 - Displaced into ever harsher lands by the growth of New Tolkas, many peoples of the north turn to dark powers for aid. They are the first to be transformed into the Nightstalkers.
17133 - Crop failures throughout the land, even within the Grand Fortress, spread famine. A war for food seems probable, but sages from the Emerald Peaks manage to avert it by sharing new techniques to better grow plants with magic in the waning light
17155 - The last large trees die, though where the great forests once stood, a self-sustaining fungal mire that will become known as the Sea of Rot spreads. Most remaining elves have settled in Efaruna and New Tolkas.
17172 - The Lorekeepers of Voor begin kidnapping infants to maintain their numbers rather than remaining in the world long enough to woo husbands or brides. The number of full Lorekeepers stands at thirteen, and will never rise again.
17188 - Volcanic action destroys the largest iron mine in Dorias. Several smaller mines run dry in the following years.
17206 - Dorias, having exhausted most of its own natural resources, turns its eyes towards the seeming paradise that is New Tolkas.
17210 - The war between Dorias and New Tolkas ends as the spider's web of coal seams beneath New Tolkas are ignited on a massive scale by the heavy use of fire magic. The armies of Dorias return home depleted and empty-handed while the survivors of New Tolkas abandon their cities and flee into the wilds. Trampled by war and poisoned by the burning coal, the area becomes known as the Plains of Despair.
17237 - Condemned prisoners, exiled to the Sea of Rot, kidnap the Princess of Efaruna. Though she escapes from the "Worm Men" in short order, her experiences are such that she never returns to the Grand Fortress.
17254 - Dorias attempts to lay siege to the Grand Fortress. It fails miserablly, but the isolationist direction the Grand Fortress takes thereafter leaves Efaruna and Vishtal in chaos.
~17300 - The sun has dimmed such that what passes for day now is equivalent to late twilight before the Waning. Most plants not grown for agriculture, often with the aid of magic, wither and die, though creepers and grasses remain. The ranks of the Nightstalkers have swelled to a level where the creatures are a significant threat to settlements. Demons (and in their wake, devils) are a constant presence.
17316 - Dorias makes war on the remnants of Efaruna and Vishtal, scattering their people. However, the strain of the campaign breaks the back of Dorias. Its major cities fall into chaos and ruin at the hands of demons, and a massive horde of Nightstalkers sweeps across the land. No organized nation-states remain, and the human populace consists of the conclave in the Emerald Peaks, the Grand Fortress, and many isolated villages that defend themselves from the predations of the Nightstalkers.
17360 - Nightstalkers are seen migrating north. The Grand Fortress erects a massive Circle of Protection that hedges the creatures out, but they do not seem bothered by it. For reasons unknown, the hordes gather in the land that becomes known as Stalker's Fell, though many remain in other climes. How there could be so many of the creatures is considered a mystery.
17391 - Volcanic eruption obliterates the society in the Emerald Peaks, which become known as the Crumbling Mountains.
17413 - The Last Dawn. The sun sets forever.
????? - A massive die-off of sapients occurs in the chaos surrounding the utter darkness. Villages starve even further and many fall to Nightstalkers and other sorts of Dark Creatures. In the Grand Fortress, despair chokes off birth rates and drives suicide to epidemic porportions, the combined result slashing the population of the Fortress. Most views of the outside world are walled off. Even the Lorekeepers of Voor suffer, as their brethren are driven to madness or other grim ends without training apprentices.
Year of Darkness 100? - The world has stabalized in the dark. Most villages that will fall have done so, though their numbers continue to dwindle. The population of the Grand Fortress stands between three and five million, where it will remain. There are six Lorekeepers of Voor -- three masters and three apprentices.
Year of Darkness 109? - One of the Apprentice Lorekeepers, the last female Lorekeeper, strays beyond the University's wards and is taken by the Nightstalkers (though not killed, oddly). A second Apprentice Lorekeeper leaves to attempt a rescue. Neither returns to the University, though their fate is unknown. The girl's master commits suicide while the boy's claims another apprentice.
Year of Darkness 120? - One of the two Master Lorekeepers, the one forced to take a new apprentice earlier, dies. His compatriot refuses to confirm the twelve-year-old apprentice as a full Lorekeeper and also refuses to train him any more. The boy attempts to attack the old man, but is killed. Only one Lorekeeper master and one apptentice now remain.
Year of Darkness 133? - On his deathbed, the last Master Lorekeepr confirms his apprentice, who now seeks an apprentice of his own.
Year of Darkness 181? - The post of Master Lorekeeper passes for the last proper time.
Year of Darkness 184? - Morgan is born, and stolen by the last Master Lorekeeper
Year of Darkness 186? - Larasa is born.
Year of Darkness 200? - The Stars are extinguished. The World ends.
Larasa Farleth looked over the vast expanse of the world. It was no use, of course -- all she could see was the glow of the crumbling mountains between where the black earth stopped and the ashen clouds they spewed into the sky began. Above her, the blackness was pierced by only a few points of faint light.
That settled it... It wasn't clouds or the smoke of fires; those might cover half the sky, or even all of it, but they would not leave a few scattered open spaces left. The stars really were going out.
A cold, sulfuric wind blew in from the north, and Larasa reflexively turned away from it, back towards the breach she had made in the walls of the Grand Fortress. It wasn't much of a hole, she told herself, just an opening where her elders had bricked up the way to the balcony from the Terrace of the Prophets when the Darkness had become too much for them to gaze upon in every waking moment. Still, she should seal it back up before going in.
Somehow, the thought of going back inside made Larasa feel sick. Why? It was her life, tending the vines that grew by the ancient wizard-lamps and stoking the eternal flames with her magic. She had lived that life since she had been a child, and now her elders said she was almost old enough to be considered a woman.
None of that seemed to matter any more. The stars were going out, another piece in an ancient mystery that wouldn't be solved within the walls of the Grand Fortress. More than anything, Larasa wanted answers, and in wanting them so fiercely, a mad thought struck her. She reached out to the breach, and battered bricks and mortar assembled behind her, sealing the way.
The sun had gone out in the youth of Larasa's great grandfather's great grandfather, and since then no one had gone beyond the wards of the Grand Fortress and returned to tell the tale. Her people were sealed inside. The artificial mountain was home to millions, though perhaps half as many as it had been built for. It was also their prison, and their tomb. Larasa was going to leave it.
In the seeming invincibility of youth, she told herself that she would be the first to dare the Domain of Darkness, and come back to the Grand Fortress as a hero, with answers to their questions and their problems. She put one foot on the ancient railing of the balcony, and looked over. It was a mile to the ground, at least, where the pinprick light of the ceremonial torches at the gate of the Grand Fortress burned. Larasa realized it would be wise to open the wall again, provision herself, and leave through that same lower gate that others used to look out upon the world and keep up the seeming of their knowledge of it.
Larasa jumped.
As she fell through the blackness, she conjured wings of wind, stretching out half a dozen arm spans to each side of her, allowing her to glide towards that foreboding, sulfur wind. As she fed power into the enchantment, they became great wings of flame, a sight for any elder who happened to be watching the sky for vanishing stars that at least one person dared to live.
~~~
"The Waning of the Sun began in the year 1432 by the calendar of the then-mighty Imperium of Vox. The Last Dawn passed in what is recorded as Year of Light 17,413 -- the Vox did not survive to see what would have been 2118 by their calendar. It is impossible to know how many years have passed since the last Year of Light, for in the panic that surrounded its coming, very few records were made. I suspect that it was between one hundred fifty and two hundred years before the present. I also suspect that any attempt to divine it more precisely will shortly become an exercise in futility as our last natural means of understanding time, the Stars, are vanishing from the sky."
Morgan was in training to be the last Lorekeeper of Voor. Who, what, or where Voor was supposed to be had been, in a fit of irony, lost from the preserved records of its lorekeepers. As such, it was his duty to peer through telescopes and scrying glasses and record what he saw in endless books that no one would ever read.
His elderly mentor, the man Morgan regarded as an uncle yet knew to have kidnapped him from his family cradle, was no longer fit to restore the wards over the crumbling 'university', nor to walk the long distance from the observatory tower to the Hall of Records to the Chamber of Ebon Mirrors as was required to make and record a Lorekeeper's observations. He hadn't even the strength to feel fussed when Morgan told him about the stars vanishing from the sky.
Or perhaps he just didn't care. Indifference, after all, was what he touted as the highest virtue of a Lorekeeper of Voor. Never interfering with the matters of the world, simply watching them and recording the unbiased truth... that was supposed to be the Lorekeeper's path. Even as the order had dwindled to such small numbers that they had become unable to sustain themselves, resorting to using scrying and teleportation to steal children to replenish their ranks, they maintained their absolute isolation from the world. Now there were only two, and Morgan's mentor was not long for the world.
Morgan sighed at his log of the Vanishing of the Stars. Impartial recording of the slow death of the world was nonsense. Every word, even the shape of his handwriting, reflected his anger at his place. Still, what else could he do but continue his vigil? He finished recording the constellations that had vanished, which by now was most of them, and then picked up his candle and made his way to the Chamber of Ebon Mirrors, to take watch over the last populations of the world.
There were thousands of mirrors, each attuned to scry upon a specific site, almost all of them reflecting only the blackness that remained when life had passed. The largest, twenty feet tall, showed the Grand Fortress that held most of the world's remaining intelligent life. A few dozen remained attuned to the other populations that were still alive, decaying villages each unknown to the others.
One of those lesser mirrors had changed, and Morgan recorded the change in his log. He could have written much, but after his disgraceful paragraph in the Observatory, he tried to force himself into the dispassionate observer his mentor desired.
"The village has been destroyed. Ashes smolder in the darkness. Severed body parts and mangled corpses are observed. No obvious post-mortem damage, indicating that the destruction was not predatory in nature. The destroyer was not observed. To the best of the knowledge of the Lorekeepers, the elven race is now extinct."
A point of light appeared in the corner of Morgan's eye, as bright as his own tiny candle. He turned to face it, the massive mirror that reflected the Grand Fortress. Without a doubt, there was movement, a point of fire descending from the heights of the Fortress, streaking towards the north. Immediately, he began to work spellcraft, getting as close a view of the firelight as he could. It was still frustratingly far away, the great scrying mirror incapable of approaching its target near enough to reveal detail. But the outline, the general shape was made known to him, and Morgan made a new and exciting record. He sketched what he saw furiously, and though his words held the valued dispassion, he felt nothing of the sort when he wrote them:
"A human has departed the Grand Fortress on wings of fire."
~~~
Larasa had traveled north for her full glide, and three sleeps thereafter before she could no longer make out even the faintest light from the Grand Fortress behind her. She was now utterly within the Domain of Darkness, the wreckage of the world that had been lost to the people of the Fortress when the Last Dawn passed. The crimson, volcanic glow of the crumbling mountains was the only natural light in the world around her, as the last star their smoke clouds did not obscure had winked out before Larasa's very eyes. It was a far off light, and didn't really provide any relief from the darkness that was immediately around her.
The Earth out here in the darkness felt sick, too. It had been growing sicker all the time, and she suspected it was sick back in the Grand Fortress too. The whole world was... mourning the stars? Or were the stars just another sign of something greater and more terrible yet to come?
One thing was certain; Larasa was not alone in the darkness. Sometimes, giant shapes moved, revealed against the background glow of volcanism, titanic things that Larasa hoped were merely the products of her imagination, for if they were real... it was best not to think about it.
Smaller horrors had set upon her. Larasa did not know if firelight attracted the monsters, misshapen black things with shockingly human-like eyes that scratched and howled when they came, or if it scared them off, but at the very least fire did seem ultimately capable of protecting her, and when she set down to sleep she conjured a ring of it about herself, a pale imitation of the holy wards that protected the Grand Fortress.
At least those hideous black creatures tasted good enough well-roasted that Larasa's hunger was staved off. Thirst was more difficult to solve, as it required dealing with the pained and sickened stone beneath her feet. There was water down there, no doubt part of the same underground waterways that provided safe drink to the Grand Fortress, but of all the elements of creation, Water was the one that Larasa was least comfortable with. Still, whether by calling it upwards or forcing the stone to squeeze it through a fissure, Larasa was afforded at least enough drink to survive.
Many times, Larasa had considered returning. Surely, she would be hailed as a hero if she simply came back from beyond the wards at all, and certainly bearing trophies of her victories over the Things in the Dark. She would be the first human to have ever dared the eternal night and won. Her name would be remembered forever.
And yet... Something still called to her, farther out there in the dark. Perhaps it was the Giant Shapes, the gods of these hideous black things that assailed her in the night. Larasa hoped that it wasn't that, some lure to her death, but rather a true and honest hope, that she might find something more worthy of bringing back to the Grand Fortress than the filed teeth of the hideous night hunters and vague words of monstrous gods silhouetted against the volcanic glow of the northwest horizon.
And so Larasa pressed on, ever into the northern dark.
~~~
Morgan omitted the apparition of the Wings of Flame from his report to his mentor in that set of rounds. On the third set after, he was recounting the vanishing, before his very eyes, of the last of the stars when the murmuring of the old man ceased. Morgan approached after calling for his mentor several times, and checked the aged man over. He had no breath, no pulse... he had passed away listening to another cycle's reports of the world, reclining in his chair amidst the powerstone-fed gardens as he always seemed to be.
Morgan buried him there, where his old bones might feed the vines that had, in life, fed him. Irony was not the prerogative of a Lorekeeper of Voor, but Morgan was the very last Lorekeeper there world ever be, he had decided, and so he felt no need to shackle himself to what had come before. If there were to be no more Lorekeepers, what had the lore been kept for? For Voor, a term that had no meaning and no relevance? No, Morgan decided, it had been kept for him. Here, at the end of all things, a Lorekeeper would interfere.
Morgan packed the few possessions he considered valuable, along with food and maps and candles that he could have light without burning magic he might need to shield himself against the assault of the terrible creatures that dwelt in the darkness. The most common were lithe, black Nightstalkers that had once been humans, their ancestors surrendering their minds and magic to devilish ways in the last Years of Light. They did not need to eat, though they were flesh and bone, but they constantly hungered, especially for the blood of their close relatives, humanity.
Other horrors no doubt dwelt out there, where there was no light. Demons? Almost certainly, but Morgan dreaded darker things that past Lorekeepers had recorded seeing after the passage of the Last Dawn, unfathomable and titanic. Most wrote the sightings off as clouds of smoke in cruel shapes, though one of the former keepers had gone mad and clawed out his eyes trying to make sense of them
Even so, Morgan was determined to go out into that dark and barren world. Alone of all its inhabitants, he might know its secrets. Perhaps, combined with whatever knowledge awaited beyond the sight of his scrying glasses and ancient tomes, there would be some hope for it.
As he prepared to leave, he considered his course, and in so doing remembered the figure with wings of flame, gliding north from the Grand Fortress that sustained the last millions of the world. At least one other soul had had the same idea as he, to venture out into the world. He examined his maps and charted a course. North from the Grand Fortress would take a body through the chimney fields of the Scar Lands or over the still-festering morass of the Sea of Rot, either way leading to the burning coal-fields and ruined cities of the Plains of Despair.
From his own position, the Plains of Despair were south, the easiest route through Stalker’s Fell, or if he did not want to dare great populations of the damned, over the broken ground of the Boiling Pools. It was a mad hope, to find that other soul out in the world. The odds were that whoever it was had been killed by something upon landing, and at the very least would not make it to the Plains of Despair.
All the same, the Plains of Despair might hold some secrets for him among the ruins of long-lost Tolkas. And furthermore, that road would take him eventually to the Grand Fortress where humanity’s last millions held sway.
It was worth a try.
~~~
Larasa had lost count of the sleeps that she had passed in the outer world by the time she stood amidst thin towers of stone that belched black smoke up into the blacker sky. The earth below her feet was dying – not just the ashen ground the chimneys coated with their soot, but the whole, deeper world. The life-giving mana she had always felt was waning every day. Fortunately, the mana that let her call fire and command stone remained, but even that she feared was starting to fade away into nothingness.
A world could survive without light, but without its own mana? Larasa doubted that such a thing was possible, and had quickened her pace since sensing it. Now, her quest had a purpose. She had to find a way to restore the mana of the world, however long it took and however hard it was. She had shaped a crude dagger from obsidian and bone, and now used it to fight off the creeping things and man-like stalkers when possible, practicing for the day she no longer had fire to save her.
That day wouldn’t come.
With a massive shudder, the earth buckled beneath Larasa’s feet. Cries followed, impossibly titanic and impossibly far howls of rage and victory alike. The giant shadows, the gods of the forever-night! They were calling to each other, to everything!
The ground heaved again. Chimneys shattered, and the entire world shook. The droning, howling cries continued, only to be drowned out by the sound of shattering stone. Larasa tried to shield herself, but there was nothing to the land, no mana she could reach. In one calamitous moment, the last of it had spilled like water from a shattered pitcher. This was the end.
~~~
Morgan told himself he should have taking the path of the Boiling Pools. For what should have been two full sleeps now, Morgan had been forced to stay awake, pressing on towards the Plains of Despair and hoping that numberless dark things would lose interest before he lost the last of this strength. Personally, he was drained almost fully, but the powerstone he had salvaged from the vine garden was, for the moment, enough to sustain his circle of protection against the assault.
It was not enough to sustain his hope that he would not, sooner or later, die beneath the filed fangs of the nightstalkers that had caught his scent. The powerstone shed faint, white light that cast the black things in sharp relief. Their claws were bestial, their gangly bodies demonic, but the eyes that stared back at him from the darkness, testing the strength of the circle, were all too human.
At first, Morgan thought the quaking he felt was just his exhaustion, but then the creatures stopped their hissing and baying as well, looking up and around in a panicked fashion. Wind picked up over the Stalker’s Fell, and they scattered. Morgan knew better than to take solace in that fact. It meant something worse was coming.
Then he heard it, a hideous droning echoing from all directions. He told himself it was the wind, a wind vaster and more terrible than any the world had known in all the Years of Light and Darkness, but part of him could not shake the stories of the mountainous titans wandering the world after the Last Dawn, and he could not stop himself from imagining the sound to be their voices, raised in a chorus of damnation.
With a violent crack, the shaking intensified. In the powerstone’s light, Morgan could see rifts growing in the ground. The fiery mountains on the southern horizon were truly crumbling, their red light brightening for a moment before being extinguished as they tumbled down into the earth, or perhaps into nothing.
The ground Morgan was standing on gave way, and he fell too. The light of the powerstone faded… no, there was simply nothing left for it to reflect off of. Stark, unreasoning terror and despair filled his mind, tumbling downward in emptiness. As his dread mounted, crushing and near absolute, something else appeared on the edge of his consciousness, another, straining to reach him. He reached back and caught it. Somehow, the darkness of the fall had itself faded, and with it the apprehension.
He landed on a field of grass, brightly illuminated by stars and a great golden-red glow on one horizon. No open field like that, vibrant and growing, had existed since the Waning had become severe. They had all withered and died…
He noticed he was holding someone’s hand. He looked, and saw a girl perhaps a little younger than he looking back at him.
“Well, hello.” She said, voice horse, then made a small laugh. “I’m Larasa.”
“Morgan.” He replied. “It’s good to meet you.”
In this strange place, vibrant and alive after the end of all things, nothing made him happier than no longer being alone. A moment later, the horizon exploded into light. Not all the words in all the tomes of all the former Lorekeepers had done justice to the Dawn.
"Enjoy your screams, Sarpadia - they will soon be muffled beneath snow and ice." THE COALITION WAR GAME -Phyrexian Praetor Round 1: (4-1-2, 1 kill) Round 2: (16-8-2, 4 kills) Round 3: (18-9-2, 1 kill) Round 4: (22-10-0, 2 kills) Round 5: (56-16-3, 9 kills) Round 6: (8-7-1) [current round]
IMPERIUM OF VOX “The Imperium of Vox, named for the Wyrm its founder slew, defined an entire age of this world. Yet, for all its might, Vox collapsed within a hundred years of the Waning’s start. It is a testament to the nations that rose from the ashes of Vox that they lasted as long as they did.” – Morgan, Last Lorekeeper of Voor
The Imperium of Vox was founded upon the bones of the last Great Dragon to live in the Age of Heroes, its first emperor the human that defeated the wyrm. The Imperium grew quickly, and became the world’s one great power.
In the early days, the Imperium was very warlike, conquering villages and tribes whether they resisted or no. The expansion slowed only when imperial forces stretched themselves thin attempting to make war on the elves at the same time the surge of settlers from the imperial heartland willing to drive northward dried up. After peace was made with the elves, Imperial borders were fixed by the treaty and remained until the waning.
The Imperium grew prosperous in this time, both science and magic progressing to high levels. Skyships and Ornithopters filled the air, while lightning-driven rail lines criss-crossed the open plains. Shining cities with ivory towers sprang up, and it seemed that the Imperium would endure for eons to come, in glory undimmed since the Age of Myths.
As with all good things, it was not to last.
“It is impossible! The gods would not permit my reign to end like this…” – Emperor Ekarath
The Waning brought chaos and instability to the Imperium. People formerly content went mad, and the weak points in imperial power were painfully exposed. One major uprising was brutally suppressed, and in its wake the Imperium took a turn for totalitarianism rather than attempting to settle the grievances of its people. This only ensured that a second civil war, with more support and better organization, would begin within a generation.
The second Vox Civil War was a long and bloody affair, seeing constantly shifting borders, massive impressments, and a few periods where the fighting died down to let the next crop of soldiers grow into their arms. Though the rebel faction was dominant at first, any hope of a swift victory was destroyed when it split into factions of its own. The technical Imperium clung to life by a thread as new movements appeared and disappeared among the rebels.
Finally, the last Emperor of Vox, Ekarath, ordered his armies north in his senility (or perhaps hoping to create an Imperial safe haven on lands formerly forbidden to them). His forces stretched thin, the rebel factions managed to coordinate for long enough to place the final nail in the coffin of the Imperium by sacking Wyrmsbane Castle and slaughtering the imperial family. For a short time, war seemed certain between the victorious factions, but they instead agreed on a division of imperial lands that would, more or less, last for most of the Waning.
EFARUNA “Of all the nations of the Waning, Efaruna shone the brightest the longest. Its lands were green and good, and its people wise and inventive. If not for the withdrawal of its royal court into the Grand Fortress, it may well have survived the Last Dawn.” – Morgan, Last Lorekeeper of Voor
Efaruna inherited from the Imperium of Vox good land in the north-east of the empire, adjacent to the Great Forest of the elves. Though lacking the mineral wealth of Dorias or the fertile fields of Tolkas, the infrastructure in Efaruna was far more intact than across the rest of the former imperium. Efaruna’s cities were large, and its citizens practiced artifice not known to the other Waning Nations.
Though their neighbor, Efaruna tended to have icy relations with the elves, not sharing their philosophies about life and nature. Though there were many border skirmishes throughout the history of the nation, no full scale war ever materialized.
When Vishtal’s great minds came up with the idea of the Grand Fortress, there was no acceptable site on Vishtal soil, and they turned to Efaruna for aid. In the northern end of Efaruna, near the elven border and the foothills of the Emerald Peaks that marked the extent of ‘civilized’ lands, there was an open plain with the right layers of stone beneath to support the construction.
In exchange for allowing the Fortress to be built, Efaruna had the right to sequester as many of its citizens within as Vishtal did. Efaruna also saw the Fortress as useful as a symbol of their own might: being on their soil, they could presumably use it as a defensive position if the need ariose.
“Our kingdom is sick, and my family does nothing to heal it. In these dark times, nobility ought to be a duty to those that are out here in the world, suffering. Instead, they see it as an entitlement to hide within their Grand Fortress and blind themselves to the problems beyond its walls. I will not go back to them, will not rest when I can do some good.” – Rasilla, Exiled Princess of Efaruna
Efaruna fell, technically, to the last campaign of Dorias to seize its lands for their own. However, the nation was doomed long before that. Early in its history, the royal court chose the Grand Fortress to serve as their palace. It worked for a time, but gradually the nobility became ever more withdrawn.
Negligence from its rulership ate away at Efaruna slowly. It did not break all at once, but simply frayed at the edges, losing ground to the strain of disaster and the fading light until there was nothing left. Not until the last hundred and fifty years of light, though did the chaos truly become absolute.
VISHTAL “Vishtal was sometimes called the parasite state. After the construction of the Grand Fortress sealed away the best and brightest of its population, it survived only through a complex web of trade and treaty. By the end, it was little more than a vassal state of Efaruna” – Morgan, Last Lorekeeper of Voor
When it came to land, Vishtal, in the south east of former Vox territory, drew the short straw. Though one could no doubt make a living on that soil, it was far from good, lacked mineral wealth, and had been the site of some of the worst fighting.
In exchange for accepting the land that no one wanted, the founders of Vishtal took with them most of the best mages and academics of the Imperium, hoping that they could capitalize on what little they had.
The Vishtal brain trust quickly devised the Grand Fortress, a way their population and culture might be preserved against whatever happened in the future. It was an ambitious project – none of its architects would live to see its completion, and it required a locale with specific magical and physical traits in order to see its full potential. Such a site did not exist in the lands ruled by Vishtal.
As such, Vishtal entered a treaty with Efaruna regarding the Grand Fortress. In exchange for access for the land to build it on, Efaruna would be included as a full partner in the project. Vishtal mages, workers, architects, and engineers migrated north. When it was finished, Vishtal’s best and brightest withdrew within
This proved to be Vishtal’s undoing as a legitimate power. With all their resources sunk into a project on Efaruna’s land, Vishtal itself fell even further. As some canny politicians remained, Vishtal negotiated treaties that traded much of its sovereignty in exchange for protection. The final blow came when Vishtal’s court moved to the Grand Fortress, far away from the people it ruled
At least in name, though, Vishtal survived as long as Efaruna. Its people, driven by survival or, if that was assured, greed, were expert merchants and traders.
TOLKAS “The history of Tolkas is one of glory and ruin. It rose higher than any other nation, but that only meant it had farther to fall in the end, crumbling first and more totally than any other nation.” – Morgan, Last Lorekeeper of Voor
Tolkas, in the northwest, was the breadbasket of the four Waning Nations. Its people tended to live in smaller towns than the other nations, closer to the earth so to speak. Its few great cities were planned carefully and incorporated parks and loft-gardens that would have made a Selesnya Ravnican feel at home
The peaceful existence of Tolkas was shattered by a force no one could have predicted nor stopped: As the world inched ever closer to its ultimate demise, volcanic activity increased dramatically, and this hit Tolkas harder than anywhere else: Its manicured cities were choked by ash and burned by lava flows, its green fields poisoned with sulfur.
The royalty of Tolkas led their people north, into the lands that had been barred by treaty to the Vox. Their migration displaced or absorbed the local tribes, but in the end what they found astounded them: the northern lands were, perhaps, fairer than Tolkas had been before the eruptions began, and had mineral wealth (especially coal) as well. The nation formally became New Tolkas, founded on the Plains of Hope.
“It seemed too good to be true… beyond the reach of civilization, a land that was still green and good, untainted by war or volcanic smoke. I was but a child when we made the long trek north, into this heaven we have made our home. I pray the granddaughters of my granddaughters find it as wondrous as I did.” - Melisande, Queen of New Tolkas
New Tolkas persisted until the late waning, when Dorias sent its armies northward to conquer it. The people of New Tolkas fought back, and it looked to be a long and bitter war until a factor neither side predicted defeated both armies
Use of large-scale fire magic ignited many of the coal seams running below New Tolkas, transforming the Plains of Hope to the Plains of Despair with the toxic smoke of the burning earth. New Tolkas suffered an artificial version of the ruin that had come to the first nation of Tolkas
The armies of Dorias returned home, depleted by the conflict, but for the survivors of New Tolkas there was no home to return to. A few refugees went to Efaruna, but more followed the path blazed by the tribes their ancestors had displaced years ago, and cried out to dark powers for their salvation.
DORIAS “Dorias began as a nation that valued skill and craftsmanship, but when lean times came, it turned to war. In aggressive action, it seemed that even defeat was to the benefit of Dorias, for the massive losses incurred in a disastrous campaign would reduce the number of mouths to feed, and the spoils from success would feed them.” – Morgan, Last Lorekeeper of Voor
Dorias, in the southwest, gained a great wealth in minerals in its share of land, and the inclinations of its people were bent towards craft with stone and metal. For a very long time, Dorias remained at peace with the rest of the world. However, that did not last.
When disaster and the simple action of time alike destroyed the resources that Dorias had once enjoyed, they turned to war in order to gain something back. Their first major campaign resulted in the destruction of New Tolkas. While few if any of their great invasions met with success, smaller raids and skirmishes took land and resources from Vishtal and Efaruna.
“If this is to be my end, let it come; I shall face it with steel in my hand! Dorias Unbroken!” – Mattias, King of Dorias
Dorias was, in effect, the last of the Waning Nations to truly fall. Its grand campaign against Efrauna and Vishtal looked to be meeting with success, but forces not aligned with any nation preyed on Dorias in return. Great demons and dragons that had laired in seclusion since the Age of Heroes emerged to lead hordes of Nightstalkers against the order of Dorias
Without its armies largely at home to defend it, the fate of Dorias, as a nation, was inevitable. Defiant until the very end, the armies of Dorias returned home to find slaughter and monsters. Companies became roving bands of barbarian warriors, hunting the dark forces where they could. Sadly, without sites to defend or the magic to do so, they did not survive in the Age of Darkness, while their nearly broken human opponents recovered enough to manage
The Grand Fortress, Sanctuary and Prison of HumanityShow
THE GRAND FORTRESS “It will weather any storm, survive any siege. It will preserve our people against the chaos and darkness that are rising in the world, until the end of time it needs be – unbreakable, self-sustaining, and filled with enough souls to ensure continued survival.” – Fortress Architect
The Grand Fortress is one of the greatest singular feats of construction ever completed by mortal hands in the Multiverse. The stronghold was vast – essentially, an artifical mountain possessed of rising spire towers and broad terrace plateaus in addition to the great, deep bulk that held homes, places of business, and eventually the fields to feed millions of humans.
The Grand Fortress was constructed in the early waning, a project of Vistal, erected on Efaruna soil. When it opened, nearly ten million humans migrated to it. The vast majority (all but a few thousand) were from either of the two nations responsible for its creation, but Vishtal negotiated hard to lure artists, philosophers, master craftsmen, and other valuable personages from Dorias and Tolkas to the Grand Fortress, hoping that such folk would serve them in good stead.
The Grand Fortress was indeed a treasure trove of the world’s knowledge and skill – no greater repository of either existed, except perhaps for the University of the Lorekeepers. However, much like the University, everything that was safely kept in the Grand Fortress was squandered. Perhaps some good came out of that place – pearls of wisdom, occasional clever crafts, but cut off from human society, it served only to remove the elements it preserved.
The courts of Efaruna and Vishtal retreated into the Fortress as well. While Efaruna was ruled effectively from the site for many long years, Vishtal’s royal family almost immediately lost what actual power they had, leaving comparatively minor functionaries wielding what they could
However, the Grand Fortress served its purpose well – It withstood a major siege from the nation of Dorias, and no force of demons, dragons, nightstalkers, or any other savage power even dared attempt its walls. When the Last Dawn came, the Fortress was the only part of the world where the mere facts of survival were provided for.
Still, an epidemic of suicide, insanity, and despair cut the population of the Fortress brutally in the wake of the Last Dawn. Still, what millions remained were no doubt the safest people in the world, with the highest standard of life. In fact, after the initial chaos died down, life inside the Fortress was almost unchanged, save perhaps that its residents, owing to lower numbers, could afford to live a little richer.
“It was never a home… just a big empty space where I happened to live. I was safe from the outside world, yes, but also a prisoner inside those walls, trapped by the fear and ignorance of everyone around me. I had to go, and I don’t miss it.” – Larasa Farleth
In the Late Waning and the Age of Darkness, the Grand Fortress can truly be said to have its own culture. Vital resources were produced and held communally – everyone was guaranteed food and clothes the same way that citizenship within the Fortress naturally guaranteed them housing. The economy, such as it was, was driven by luxuries and fine products: With two royal courts in residence, the demand for nice things never let up.
In addition, the Grand Fortress could boast the most spell-casters per capita of any large population. All forms of magic were known, practiced, taught, and ultimately put to use if possible. The people of the Grand Fortress tended to shun Black magic for its sinister associations with darkness, but even it was used occasionally, and by the Age of Darkness much of the grunt, unskilled manual labor was done by skeletal hands.
The first Years of Darkness were recorded by the people of the Grand Fortress as the Troubled Times. Over the course of a fifty years, the population of the Fortress was cut in half due to many dying young (even by their own hands) and many more not producing children. It continued to decline for the rest of the Years of Darkness, though at an ever-decreasing rate: by the end, the people had adapted enough to their new world to begin procreating and growing once more.
The royal courts did not properly survive the Troubled Times of the Grand Fortress. The individuals no doubt did, and one might even suspect that the well-to-do were less prone to the despair and death that visited the Fortress than were the commons, indicating that one could probably consider many residents of the Fortress bluebloods by its end. By the end though, the rulership of the Fortress was managed by a large council. Some, truthfully or not, clamed lineage to the ancient royals, while others made no such pretenses. The people of the Fortress had lost enough of their history that it was rather moot in any case.
On the whole, the people of the Grand Fortress could often be regarded as cool and distant. They were also, oddly enough, a superstitious and fearful lot: the Grand Fortress was protected by a series of wards that amounted to a Circle of Protection scaled to match the Fortress itself, maintained by countless mages through all the Years of Darkness.
Though it never failed and seldom faltered, the magical protection allowed the Fortress residents to go soft: smaller towns might be protected in a similar manner, but the militia would still have to fend off the Nightstalkers. A hard life, no doubt, but one that allowed the people the knowledge that the things in the dark could be defeated.
Fortress residents, on the other hand, were safe from the dangers of the world, and also ignorant of the fact that their own strength could match at least some number of such things. To the very end they dreaded the Darkness, dreaded the outside, and with one notable exception huddled within their walls until they died.
THE LOREKEEPERS OF VOOR “What is a word when it is divorced from all meaning? Does it continue to exist, or does it cease to be a word when it no longer represents an idea? This is Voor, a word that has no meaning, to which the Lorekeepers cling. There could be no more appropriate term, for the lore they keep is as meaningless as ‘Voor’, locked away and kept from having purpose…” – Tala, Former Lorekeeper and Queen of Tolkas
The Lorekeepers of Voor are an organization of nearly unfathomable antiquity, existing in all ages of the world except for the Age of Myths, a span of time exceeding ten thousand years.
The first Lorekeepers were elven, naturally, as Taramir’s native humans existed in a state of barbarism for essentially the whole of the Age of Forests. While a continuity of apprenticeship and teaching does extend from that time to the Age of Darkness, the original texts of the first Lorekeepers largely do not. Only a few volumes, mostly those written about the Age of Myths and not the then-present Age of Forests, were still available during Morgan’s apprenticeship. The rest had been condensed, summarized, recopied, and the originals lost to the ravages of time.
What good records of the Age of Forests did make it through unscathed say little about the Lorekeepers themselves, but it can be surmised that they were far more numerous and active in those days, perhaps even going so far as to be a political power to be reckoned with. A few passages seem to suggest, at least, that the Lorekeeper policy of non-interference was not adopted until after the Great War that ushered in the Age of Heroes (and had a hand in destroying many of the Age of Forests records).
Was this an act of penance for uplifting humanity, as Tala’s writings in her apprenticeship suggested? Or did the chaos and destruction of the war simply drive the Lorekeepers to seek solitude and isolation? It is possible, even likely, that the modern world will never know.
“A Lorekeeper of Voor has a sacred duty to ever watch the world, never interfering with its events. Knowledge is our cause, an ends in and of itself, not a means to some other goal. We serve the lore itself, and our service must remain pure, untainted by worldly desire to use the knowledge.” – Kalas, Lorekeeper of Voor
The first mention of Humans in the preserved annals of the Lorekeepers, at least as a sentient race, dates to the late Age of Forests, wherein the Lorekeeper responsible for the particular log took in a wild human and slowly taught ‘it’ to speak, obey manners, and as the finishing touch on his experiment, to wield magic. Tala of Tolkas cited this record as evidence for her human-uplift theory, but whether or not this act sparked the end of an age, it lines up well with Humanity’s rise to prominence. Within a hundred years, the Lorekeepers had inducted their first human as a full member, and within another century, human hands began to shape the newly dawned Age of Heroes.
The earliest record of the Lorekeeper’s determination to watch the world and not interact with it comes at the start of the Age of Heroes. The number of Lorekeepers dropped sharply from several thousand to several hundred, and they began to center themselves around the Northern University, abandoning their other outposts and transporting their tomes and records to it.
During this time, there was also a major turn-over between elven and human Lorekeepers. At the start of the Age of Heroes, there had only been five humans to enter the ranks. By the start of the Waning Age, there were only two elven Lorekeepers, and they were the last elves to hold the title.
The reasons for this are somewhat mysterious, not because there is no fathomable cause, but because there are too many competing theories. Humans were ascendant as the world power, they tend to do everything faster than their elven counterparts (if not as well, say the elves), and there seemed to be some enmity between the Lorekeepers and the remaining elven factions. Which of these factors actually played a part is impossible to know.
The number of Lorekeepers declined slowly through the Age of Heroes and Age of Empire, and their involvement with the world did the same. Throughout the Age of Heroes, many still traveled, actively seeking out history being made and occasionally, accidentally, making some themselves. As the Age of Empire tamed the world, the Lorekeepers simply positioned members in various courts to observe the shifting tides of politics. Shortly into the Waning, they stopped leaving their University on official business at all.
It is possible, certainly, that the decay of the Lorekeepers into nothingness was not due to the Waning and the Last Dawn, as was the decay of the rest of the world. They had been waning, though slowly and gracefully, since the end of what had essentially been their age. It would not have taken planar cataclysm to push them over the edge.
“I have gazed into the darkness… behind the darkness. What I have seen has shaken me to my core, but I am yet unsure of my knowledge. I shall look again into the abyssal gulfs of night that now surround us. Knowledge is sacred, and I do not fear it. Only the thought of remaining ignorant fills me with dread.” – Varrignan, Lorekeeper of Voor, who was later found by his brethren intermittently screaming and sobbing, having clawed out his eyes in terror.
With the Last Dawn, the world that the Lorekeepers refused to interfere with interfered with them instead. Thirteen full Lorekeepers were alive at the Last Dawn due to a policy of single masters and single apprentices begun in Year of Light 17172. Approximatley a century later, there were only three.
The other ten lines of Lorekeepers died out when either the master died without taking an apprentice, before the apprentice was ready and no other master chose to tutor him or her, or with the death of the apprentice and the refusal of the master to take another. Most infamous of these losses was the suicide of Varrignan, though he was not the only one to, in effect, claim his own life.
Two of the three remaining lines were severed not long after matters had seemed to become stable, when two apprentices left the Lorekeepers (One taken by Nightstakers, the other following after her) and their masters failed to train replacements.
Thus it fell to the Planeswalker-to-be Morgan to be the last Lorekeeper of Voor, inheritor of all their history and culture…
The Conclave of the Emerald Peaks, Seekers of GreenShow
EMERALD PEAKS “I shall accept that the purpose of life is to better and to propagate itself. I shall better my life, and the lives that I touch. I shall spread life where I travel. I shall nurture life at home. When the leaves sing in the wind, I shall listen and be obedient to their message. I shall nurture the earth, and be nurtured in return.” – Emerald Acolyte’s Devotional
In Year of Light 16969, a man calling himself Skye Verdantdawn (no doubt an assumed name) rallied mobs of disaffected Vishtal citizens. After several months, local authorities began to crack down on his “cult”, which preached harmony and oneness with nature, and seemed to offer an alternative to the negligent government, calling for people to abandon their jobs and homes to live from the land.
Shortly after persecution in Vishtal began, cells of Verdantdawn’s movement sprung up in Efaruna. However, Efaruna was a nation in glory days, and the call to abandon civilization found far less traction. In the end, Verdantdawn lead his most devoted followers on a pilgrimage through to the mountain range known as the Emerald Peaks.
There, the faithful established a commune. Many of them already practiced green magic before joining Verdantdawn, and many more were educated in it. Though the conclave eschewed the conveniences afforded to ‘mainstream’ civilization, they mastered arts of growth that not only provided food, but shelter and some luxuries as well while throughout the land agriculture was becoming more difficult.
The faithful believed that Verdantdawn was a reincarnation, in human form, of one of the great elvish druids of the Age of Forests. Others sources suggest that Verdantdawn was a half-elf, formed of the taboo union of Taramir’s two greatest races. Whatever the case, he was without a doubt a genius in his craft, both powerful and innovative.
For the duration of his life, the length of which lent credence to both the tales of his spiritual superiority and the rumor of his bastard parentage, Verdantdawn continued to walk among the people of the civilized world, especially Vishtal, seeking out converts for his cause.
“The Emerald Peaks were an exercise in hypocrisy. Its founders, mostly from Vishtal, left their home in protest over their government’s isolation in the Grand Fortress. They then withdrew to their own secret conclave, largely becoming more hidden than the nobles.” – Morgan, Last Lorekeeper of Voor
Recruitment ended with the death of Verdantdawn. The Emerald Peaks, thereafter, became largely reclusive. Either forgotten by the main stream, or though of as a threatening cult, it is likely that one or more nations would have made war on them had they been any more offensive.
In 17133, the Society of the Emerald Peaks did manage to give something back to the world at large – A strange blight began to destroy crops, even those adapted to live without natural light, such as the vinebeds beneath the Grand Fortress. For tense months in spring and summer, it seemed that by the harvest there would either be starvation or war.
However, the Emerald Peaks acolytes came down from their mountain in that year. With the magic they had learned, they not only cured the crop blights for large swaths of arable land, but managed to increase the yields enough that harvests were better than they had been in a dozen years. After that, the acolytes retreated as mysteriously as they had emerged.
Some Lorekeepers suggested that the Emerald Peaks conclave created the Blight as well as cured it, their motive being survival against some nation growing tired of independent thought in the high mountains. If that was the case, the stroke worked masterfully; the peoples of Taramir thereafter regarded the Emerald Peaks as sort of guardian angel.
They would never again lift a finger to aid the outside world.
The Society was destroyed suddenly in 17391, just before the Last Dawn, when the Emerald Peaks gave way to volcanic decay. The newly formed Crumbling Mountains were perhaps the least hospitable lands in the Age of Darkness, and continued to erupt with flows of lava and clouds of sulfur smoke until the end of the world.
THE ELVES “When the light first broke over Taramir, we were the ones who were there to see it, and appreciate its beauty. Elves stood tall amidst its virgin fields and young saplings, and knew that all was well and good. We grew proud, for a time, and were punished for our arrogance. Still, we remain, and as we saw the first dawn, so we shall see the last.” – Neyirian Solemnara, Liege of Orien Retreat
Elven culture on Taramir is ancient – they rose from barbarism in the Age of Myth, and dominated the Age of Forests. As in some other planes, the elves of Taramir felt a strong, innate connection to the woodlands. They spread these woodlands over nearly all the surface of Taramir with their druidic magic, creating the Age of Forests.
During the Age of Forests, Elven society consisted of few large nation-states, unified under the rule of a council. However, when the Age of Forests ended, the elves did not re-unify under a single banner. Instead, individual communities, called “retreats”. Some of the Forest Retreats in the Age of Heroes were open communities, while others were reclusive. Over time, the reclusive communities won out, the more open elven retreats fading or falling one way or another. By the Waning Age there were three forest retreats in the Great Forest (Orien, Mashar, and Kelian) northeast of Efaruna, and two more in other woods (Amerat and Liransidhe).
In addition to attempting to have fewer and fewer relations with the outside world, elves also gradually turned against intellectualism and civilization in general. Where the elves of the Age of Forests had founded the Lorekeepers and hosted them at their height, the elves of the waning could be said to, on average, have preferred using books for mulch to reading them.
Some, such as Tala of Tolkas, suggest this was a reaction against the Lorekeepers themselves, reinforced by finding comfort in familiar rituals and the natural world. Others suggest that the reaction was instead a gesture opposed to the artifice that humans engaged in, which the elves may have feared was harming Taramir itself.
Even elven magic practices suffered for their isolation and opposition to progress; In the late waning, they were incapable of maintaining the life of large trees in the failing light. With the forests gone, the forest retreats also fell. Some elves settled on human soil, setting aside their pride and disdain to build walled towns after the human style. Others remained in the Sea of Rot or its minor mirrors, keeping to their luddite, druidic ways, even as fungus and trickle of human exiles made the area ever more unlivable by their standards.
“I feel what I feel, and I feel no shame for what I have done, nor who I love.” – Aimeliara Kiirasi, before her execution.
The relationship between humans and elves on Taramir is complicated. Elves played at least a part in the rise of humanity from barbarism, but civilized humans quickly broke and overran elven political power. As such, relations between elves and humans grew more icy, both politically and personally.
By the Age of Empire, the Elves considered unions between their species and Humans (which had been grudgingly accepted by some retreats during the Age of Heroes) to be the darkest taboos, the violation of which resulted in death. If a half elf was discovered, it would be put to death, as would the elven parent and, if they could manage, the human parent as well. Such violators (or, in the case of the halfblood infants, violations) of the great taboo were ceremonially burned alive, so their ‘tainted’ flesh would not rejoin the earth that should be pure.
Humans, for their part, also largely considered unions with elves to be forbidden, but no human government made a systematic effort to punish mixed-race couples or eradicate half elves. The general scorn and distaste from the human populace, though, helped ensure that remaining in human lands was not exactly a pleasant option either.
Still, there were two heydays for half elves. The first was in the Age of Heroes, especially the middle of the age when humans were becoming strong and elves had not yet isolated themselves nor solidified in their hatred of mixed unions. The second came in the late Waning. Some elves remained in the Sea of Rot simply because it was their home, and the human nations used the place as exile for undesirables of all descriptions. While relations were strained by old hatreds, especially those of the militant elves living deeper in the Sea of Rot, life still found a way, and it is likely there were more mixed marriages and half-elf births per year in the late waning than in any other time period.
NIGHTSTALKERS “Though the darkness breeds only death for civilized people, there are other things that it has spawned. Some superstitious fools say that the Nightstalkers are the remnants of barbarian tribes that sold their souls to demons in order to survive when the survivors of Tolkas took their land. A preposterous notion – there are far too many of the vicious creatures for that to account for them.” – Screed, Rumor-monger of Vishtal.
Nightstalkers were first sighted around Year of Light 17100. For a few years, their existence was doubted, but the sightings and then numbers quickly increased, making traveling the world alone somewhat more dangerous.
Their nature was swiftly uncovered by the Lorekeepers of Voor, who (as was their way) let the other peoples of the world keep guessing, though many hit upon the right notion without the aid of scrying magic. That notion was that the Nightstalkers were creatures that used to be human.
As the world grew harsh and dark, peoples without a steady home, such as the tribes of the Plains of Hope who did not join with the people of New Tolkas, found survival an increasingly difficult struggle. Several such groups, independent of one another, began to barter with the only forces that would listen to ensure their continued survival and, with at least the first, freedom from the march of civilization in New Tolkas.
Whether they bargained with demons, or with spirits of darkness aligned with the new nature of the world, the result was the same. Those humans who accepted such deals were physically transformed into something else. The resultant creature, the nightstalker, was possessed of jet-black skin as well as cruel claws and fangs. Their bodies tended to be thin and sinewy, perhaps a relic of the starvation that most driven to become nightstalkers endured.
Some Nightstalkers presented prominent chins similar to those seen in the Nightstalkers of Caliman (Creatures of currently unknown origin; it is unlikely they share the genesis of Taramir Nightstalkers), while others were short faced. A few were observed to have other physical mutations such as long tails, horns, or other adornments, but the majority lacked such alterations. Always, their eyes remained unchanged – a vestige of humanity set in their now twisted forms.
Certainly, Taramir Nightstalkers were not exactly biological creatures in the end. They were formed of flesh and blood, as many humans that slew them and Lorekeepers that dissected captured specimens could attest. However, they were never observed to require meat nor drink, though if offered the opportunity to feed upon flesh they, like ghouls, would engage in the grisly feast.
“No records of peaceful contact with Nightstalkers exist, and all scholarship suggests that their intentions towards untainted humanity are nothing but murderous. Yet still I wonder at the old tale of my order, of a girl not killed but… taken. Certainly, they have some sinister cunning, the image of human intellect, but perhaps there is more to it.” – Morgan, Last Lorekeeper of Voor
Sages never discovered what became of the human’s soul in such transactions as created the Nightstalkers. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, perhaps the soul was preserved, if perverted. Perhaps it was simply discarded as so much slag, unnecessary for the Dark Powers. And what of second-generation Nightstalkers, then? Their numbers were such that it is assured they were capable of breeding. Were those born that way soulless while their parents had souls, or could they perhaps possess the souls their parents had lost? One horrifying possibility considered by scholarship is that Nightstalkers birthed untainted humans, children that were immediately subjected to the same transmutations as their forbearers.
In any case, the intellect was another matter altogether. Communication with Nightstalkers was never, to the knowledge of the Lorekeepers, met with success, but it is certain that Nightstalkers were capable of communicating with their masters – Demons and Spirits of the Darkness – and with each other as well. While few of them were observed to use tools, this seems to have been a matter of choice rather than ability. Nightstalkers captured by one force or another in order to study them defied cages that would baffle and contain animals, their problem-solving skills as keen as a human. At least one was able to pick locks.
Those in the wild preferred their teeth and claws to manufactured weapons, and though seen to wear no clothing (for their mutations hid what features any remaining human mores would consider objectionable and rendered them tough enough to go out in the world without protection), some were seen to carry adornments, either fetishes of bone or jewelry won no doubt from the destruction and consumption of some human settlement.
All this evidence leads to one inexorable conclusion – the Nightstalkers were probably capable of achieving anything their human forbearers had, but were simply unwilling to form themselves into a building civilization like the dominant races of Taramir that had come before them.
THE DARK POWERS “We pay homage to the Powers of the Earth that support us, give thanks to the Powers of Water that nourish us, respect the Powers of Fire that warm us, and make our devotions to many other sorts of Powers besides. Yes, even the Powers of the Darkness. It is more important than ever to honor them, for they grow mightier each night.” – Amara the Fair, Northern Shaman, to the Assembly of New Tolkas.
In the Waning Age, Taramir’s great distinction was not between good an evil, but between Light and Darkness, and the side of Darkness was always the stronger. The Dark Powers of Taramir were those entities – mostly Demonic or Elemental – which represented the side of Darkness, and were magical creatures enough to be considered “Powers” (a rough translation from the elven term), entities more of spirit and mana than mere mortals, but not quite grand or inscrutable enough to be considered gods.
The most numerous and mighty Dark Powers were elemental in nature. Elementals of the Darkness grew strong, glutted on the expansion of their domain in the waning light. Many such entities that had merely represented shadows in the night became true Powers, more of them showing up as the Waning deepened.
Elemental Powers were concerned, primarily, with the expansion of their domain, pure darkness and those things related to it. It is suspected that, as the northern tribes revered most forms of Elementals, they were the sort of Dark Power that created the first Nightstalkers. Nightstalkers would themselves cease creating the light of civilization (for the Dark Elementals, a very physical term – humans need light to see by and will create it), and in great numbers might act to snuff it out.
“Fear has always been a tempting emotion, as liable to consume one as rage or passion. Nowhere is that more clear than in its demons, who must enjoy the irony of my dreading their growing power.” – Sodar, Lorekeeper of Voor, Essays on Metaphysical Biology
The most iconic Dark Powers, what the civilized peoples of Taramir thought of when they looked into the night and saw nothing, were the demons. Demons were Anathema, the physical representation of all things negative in the intelligent spirit. Fear, Hatred, Envy, Greed – these things, and others like them, gave birth to Taramir’s demons and gave them strength. In some ways, Demons were simply another kind of elemental, one representing intelligent concepts rather than natural forces. As with elementals, the mightiest among them were liable to be considered Powers.
Demons aligned primarily with fear and despair grew very strong in the waning, as the natural state of the world was one that increased their unwitting tribute from humans. Demonkind had also long ago discovered that acts of obeisance or worship rendered unto them were as nourishing as their natural domains. Thus, when they observed the creation of Nightstalkers, they chose to mimic it (or perhaps the Elemental Powers mimicked them; none can be sure).
It is thought that each demonic Dark Power may have made different bargains. Some may very well have claimed the soul of the nightstalker-to-be, but for most it was good enough that the nightstalker would pay them homage (increasing the demon), and sow fear and despair among normal humans (increasing the demon’s domain).
Other sorts of demons might also be considered Dark Powers by the civilized humans of Taramir if strong enough, but they were unlikely to have been served so well by Nightstalkers – the gangly, terrible creatures would not inspire much Lust or Avarice, after all.
"Enjoy your screams, Sarpadia - they will soon be muffled beneath snow and ice." THE COALITION WAR GAME -Phyrexian Praetor Round 1: (4-1-2, 1 kill) Round 2: (16-8-2, 4 kills) Round 3: (18-9-2, 1 kill) Round 4: (22-10-0, 2 kills) Round 5: (56-16-3, 9 kills) Round 6: (8-7-1) [current round]
Rasilla sighed heavily and looked out the window to her left before remembering that the Sea of Rot was in sight that direction. At least inside the carriage, she could only barely smell the hideous decay. She drew the curtain over the window and looked to her right, where the crimson sun, its bright disk sporting dark lesions, was beginning to dip behind the Emerald Peaks. Dissatisfied with that vista as well, she looked straight ahead, at the handsome but sometimes grating lordling, Jericho, who was her escort for the time being.
“Are we there yet?” she groaned
“No, highness.” Jericho replied, exhausted, “We’re still quite far from Fort Beryl. I suspect it will take us most of the night to get there.”
Rasilla rolled her eyes.
“We wouldn’t be having this problem if they had just sent the skyship to the Fortress in the first place.”
“Well, highness,” Jericho said, “It is your family’s ship, and your parents agreed it wouldn’t be right for it to go on its maiden voyage without a member of your family aboard.”
Maiden voyage was an interesting way of putting it. New skyship or no, Rasilla wasn’t looking forward to meeting with every country noble’s half-wit son – which was the entire purpose of the journey.
“This whole trip is a farce anyway.” She said. “There are plenty of good matches in the Fortress itself, proper young men who would do anything for the future queen of Efaruna.”
Jericho swallowed. The only way Rasilla had ever managed to make him nervous was reminding him of his place in that number.
“H-highness.” He said, trying and failing to regain his composure, “I do not presume-“
Rasilla laughed.
“All I’m saying,” She said, “Is that if anyone wants my hand, he had better be prepared to go out of his way to get it. I’m sure you understand.”
Jericho’s face was bright red, and not just from the crimson sunlight. For a moment, Rasilla considered that she might be enjoying teasing him a little too much, but catching Jericho off guard was a monstrously hard thing to do and she intended to take a little more advantage before he recovered.
Before she could speak again, the carriage lurched to a sudden stop. Any harder, and Rasilla might have been thrown from her seat.
“What is the meaning of this?!” She shouted. “Driver!”
A moment of silence passed, and then, cacophony – a chorus of screaming and shouting from the outside. Rasilla turned to Jericho.
“I thought this road was supposed to be safe!”
Eyes now wide with fear, Jericho struggled to answer.
“I don’t know,” He said. “All the reports were that the Nightstalkers were massed west of the Fortress.”
Rasilla looked to the window. To the west of the carriage there was still only the land of Efaruna, the distant mountains, and the baleful red sunset. The picture was eerily calm and still as the sounds of battle reached a crescendo to the east.
Jericho must have seen it too. “We have to get out of here.” He said, “If we make a break for it, we should be able to get away while the guards still have whatever it is engaged.”
“What if the guards win?” Rasilla protested.
There was a ragged scream, and something hit the west-facing side of the carriage hard
“Point taken.” Rasilla said, and made for the door. Jericho stepped halfway in front of her, and threw the door open.
The stench of the Sea of Rot was strong and close, permeating the air all around Rasilla. She gritted her teeth and reminded herself that this was not a time to worry about minor discomfort.
Jericho climbed down from the carriage, and Rasilla followed. He drew his sword as one of the outriders came into view from around the front of the carriage, his clockwork steed diligently and fearlessly carrying the coward away from battle.
He had not gotten three feet past them when something shot out at the legs of the clockwork horse, fouling its gait and sending it toppling over. Rasilla almost bolted herself, but Jericho caught her shoulder.
“Wait.” He hissed, “We don’t know what we’re up against.”
A moment later, worms began to appear from the fighting, first one, then two more of the foul, bloated, maggot-like creatures, each at least a foot in diameter and four long. The fleeing soldier was still pinned under his steed when the worms descended on him and, without hesitation, began to feed.
“I’ll take my chances getting away from it.” Rasilla hissed.
Jericho nodded, and broke into a run, Rasilla as close behind as her skirts would allow.
One breath, no disaster. Two breaths. Three breaths. She was only seconds from a low ridge, somewhere to duck under, when she felt a sharp shock around her legs. Something hard struck her, bearing her to the ground. She heard a sickening crack, and screamed in pain
“Rasilla!” Jericho screamed.
Rasilla had a chance to look at the cause. It was a bolas, a human weapon, wrapped tight around her legs, one of which even she could tell was broken by the impact.
Jericho appeared beside her, and started to help her with the tangle
“Run!” Rasilla yelled. She didn’t know why; the last thing she wanted was to be left behind to become food for those hideous giant worms, but all she could think to do was tell him to run.
He hesitated. “Rasilla, I-“
“That’s an order!” she yelled, “Get out of here!”
Jericho ran, and Rasilla tried to struggle with her bonds. Don’t panic, she told herself. Unwind the cord rather than just pulling at it like an animal. She started, and stopped almost as quickly as the changing pressure brought new pain. Maybe if she could crawl out of sight…
She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and told herself yet again that panic wouldn’t help. As calm and centered as she could manage to be, she opened her eyes.
At once, she panicked, for one of the great white maggots was almost upon her, followed closely by a bulky man in ragged robes and a brightly colored cloth mask, carrying a red-tipped, gnarled wooden staff.
Rasilla tried to squirm backwards, but made almost no progress. The worm seemed to sniff at her foot for a moment, and then the man made a hissing noise and tapped it with his staff. Mercifully, the worm turned away from her, and with another few hisses and jabs of the staff at the air, began to crawl back to the wrecked wagon and carnage there. Unmercifully, the man walked to Rasilla’s side and , grabbing her arm, pulled her rudely to her feet.
There were another two men approaching, in garb as ragged as the worm-guide’s, but of different styles.
“Definitely her.” One of the new men croaked.
“A man got away.” The one holding her said, “I was out of bolas.”
“Bah,” The other, presumably the leader, said. “It’s probably for the best. Long as we have our prize!”
All three laughed, and the leader started back towards the wreck as the other two bore her along.
Rasilla wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have been better off as food for the worms.
***
Rasilla scanned her surroundings. The small shack was constructed of a motley mix of materials. The floor was made of a strange, fungal wood and the most important parts of the structure of rusted metal. The walls were some sort of leather, probably several sorts, given a little extra shape by braces of carved bone.
Despite her predicament, she had been given enough time to admire that someone had made an acceptable whole from wholly unacceptable parts.
Her hands had been bound together after she tried to strike one of the worm-guides and make a break, while her captors had not bothered with her legs. They said it was so she could hobble along rather than having to be carried, but really Rasilla suspected that the worm-guide had wanted his bolas back, and she wasn’t going anywhere on her own with a broken leg.
Though there was little she could do but examine her surroundings in the candlelight, Rasilla’s mind raced. Her injury was, of course, the biggest hurdle to escape, one she would have to overcome in order to win her freedom. By comparison, her bound hands were the least of her worries, while the worms – the teeming masses of vile larvae, maggots, and other filth-feeding crawlers that their party had passed through on the way into the Sea of Rot – rated somewhere between the two.
Already, she had thought of and discarded at least in part perhaps a dozen schemes. They all started the same way: testing the metal about the room for a rough edge she could use to free her hands. They all ended the same way too: without a good means of transport or even the ability to do more than hobble and hop, she could perhaps struggle far enough out to be eaten alive and no further.
All the same, she was considering testing the metal in earnest when a new figure entered the room.
The man wore a robe of brown cloth with a heavy hood, painted here and there with tracts of green and the occasional swatch of yellow. Rasilla guessed the marks signified his rank among these savages, but she had yet to discern their exact meaning.
The man hesitated a moment in the doorway.
“Stay back.” Rasilla hissed. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Apologies.” He said softly, and walked over to her as she squirmed ineffectually towards the far wall. He knelt before her and placed a hand on her foot.
“I can help you with that leg if you’ll allow me.”
There was something strange about the man. His hands and his face were, as far as Rasilla could see, free of the lesions and sores that were common to the other folk of the Sea of Rot that Rasilla had seen. Further, everything about his demeanor was soft and calming, determined in its own way to soothe away the fear she felt.
In any case, Rasilla was for what was perhaps the first time in her life in no position to object to anything.
“If you say so.” She said, and clumsily lifted her hopelessly soiled and damaged dress away from her shin, exposing the break. It was easy enough to see at least, a ruddy purple bruise spreading from where she felt the break.
The man gingerly touched the injury. White light bloomed at his fingertips, and Rasilla felt a warm, tingling sensation spread over her lower leg, numbing the ache. After a moment, the man began to whisper, and the bruise began to fade away. The light faded away, and so did the odd, prickly warmth.
“There,” He said, moving back a bit to give her space, “it should be fixed now.”
“Impressive,” Rasilla said, “where did you learn to heal like that?”
“From my father.” The man replied.
“And I suppose,” Rasilla said, “Now is the part where you make a demand of me? Don’t think I have to do what you say now. Your people are why my leg was broken in the first place.”
“I intend to make no demands.” The man replied, “Though in that I do not speak for all the Rot dwellers.”
Rasilla took a deep breath. For the time being, at least, this man was acting the part of a reasonable human being. If anyone here had the barest shred of compassion for her status as a woman abducted, or reverence for her status as the Princess of Efaruna, she might be able to use that to escape.
“What’s your name?” She asked
“Norathascus,” he replied, “Norathascus Emiyarani. You can call me Norath. Everyone else does.”
“But,” Rasilla said, taken far off-guard, “That’s an elven name.”
“Oh!” Norath said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
He lowered his hood, allowing her a clear look at his face, the left side of which was marked by an intricate tattoo of spiral branches. His eyes were vivid green and had an odd yet not displeasing slant to them, while his ears were somewhat pointed. None could doubt his elven features and yet… his hair was bright red-orange, a color never found among elven king. This one fact, drilled into Rasilla’s head long ago by some forgotten tutor, led her to the impossible conclusion.
“You’re…” she stammered, “You’re a half-elf?!”
He nodded.
“On my father’s side.”
“But that’s impossible!” Rasilla protested, “Elves kill half-elves. Most humans would turn one out into the wilds, too.”
Norath sighed. “Those were the ways… but things are different in the Rot. Elves like my father and my half-sister… they had to give up the old hatreds or die, and the humans sent here to decay with the forest were more than happy for their help.”
“And why is that?”
“They were exiles,” Norath said, “From all of your nations, even far Dorias, sent here to live out their lives on this poisoned land, with the worms and the fungus. They were riddled with diseases that do not plague elves or those like me, and didn’t largely know the art of surviving in what amounted to the wild.”
“And the elves taught them?”
“Some elves, at least. The exiles adapted too… elves make poor worm-guides, but humans wouldn’t have figured out on their own.”
“How about you?” Rasilla asked, “Halfbloods, I mean.”
“I’m not the only one, if that’s what you’re asking. We don’t get sick the same way humans do, and have a bit of a knack for certain kings of magic, that’s all. Other than that, we’re like anyone else.”
“And they just accept you? Both sides?”
“Well,” Norath said, “You seem rather more interested than I’d expected. It’s probably a good thing… it’ll make the others more likely to trust you. Anyway, to put it briefly, things are a bit different in the Rot than in the rest of the world, so I understand.”
Outside, a rough male voice shouted.
“Norath!” he bellowed, “Norath, do your job and get back out!”
He winced.
“Well, it seems I’m needed elsewhere.” He said, “Until next we meet, princess.”
With that, he left the room, disappearing through the crude door he had entered by. Though Rasilla was not ill disposed towards the man, however unfortunate his background, she did find herself wishing he had thought to untie her hands.
***
Rasilla tried to sleep after that first meeting with Norath. How long she attempted to fend off nightmarish thoughts of those horrible worms, Rasilla could not say. However, she must have been successful eventually, for she was awakened gently by Norath’s return
“Ugh,” she said. “When is it?”
“Just after sunup,” the half-elf replied. “Here. You must be famished.”
He set a crude platter with what looked to be some sort of dried meat and several small mushroom caps on it beside her, and next to that a ceramic pitcher and cup. Nothing looked terribly appetizing, and the stench of the Sea of Rot was all-pervasive, but Rasilla was hungry all the same.
Still, she had enough of her wits about her to think of other needs as well.
“If you don’t mean to feed me by hand,” she said, “You’ll have to untie mine.”
“Oh!” Norath said, “Sorry.”
From his side, he drew a small knife, and in a moment’s work had cut Rasilla’s last bonds. She was now, she realized, as free as she was likely to be without making some effort of her own.
Her eyes darted to the pitcher. It had a convenient handle and certainly looked heavy. If she were to strike Norath with it, she might be able to make a break for it.
All the same, she would rather not hit the only person to, so far, show her any kindness in this place. Rasilla looked at the platter.
Hesitantly, she reached out and picked up a strip of the meat
“It’s not…”
“Not what?” Norath asked
Rasilla looked away from him “Human… or anything else that can talk, I guess.”
“No, it’s-”
“I don’t want to know what it is.” Rasilla said hastily, “Just what it’s not.”
She tore into the meat.
“Not that I’m sure I’d want the answer,” Norath said, concerned, “but why exactly did you fear it would be human?”
“No offense,” Rasilla said, “But in the Fortress, they’ve always said elves steal human babies to eat.”
Norath winced, “I’d heard some of the more recent exiles say things like that. The funny thing is, elves made the same claims about humans.”
“What, that we stole your babies for food?” Rasilla asked, horrified.
“No,” Norath said, “They claimed humans eat their own young.”
Rasilla swallowed quickly, before further conversation robbed her of what little appetite she had without taking the hunger pains with it.
“In any case,” Norath said, “That’s hardly talk for breakfast.”
“How about this one?” Rasilla said, “Why am I here?”
“I don’t really know.”
“No?”
“They haven’t decided yet.” Norath said. “Everyone… all the decision-makers, at least… they decided when we heard about your trip, that we had to do something. I think most of them still have their heads screwed on right and see that we need your help.”
“What? Why my help?”
“Because,” Norath said, “It’s not just exiles here. In fact, most of the people in the Rot are the sons and daughters of exiles, or their sons and daughters. Generations of people doomed for the crimes of their forbearers, dying of plagues and not knowing whether the nightstalkers will move in or the worms turn on us, or what have you, but knowing that however bad it is here the worst is yet to come.”
“That’s terrible.” Rasilla murmured.
“But no one will listen. They aren’t allowed to leave this place, and while we know it’s not exactly well policed, the only thing worse than staying would be being driven back.”
“If you’re looking for someone with power,” Rasilla said, “you kidnapped the wrong princess.”
Norath looked down. “I wouldn’t say that too loud.”
“Why not?”
“Because some of them don’t think you could bring our plight to the royals of Efaruna, or change anything. They want to hold you here and threaten to kill you if your parents don’t accept their demands, or just kill you to send a message.”
“Charming.”
“Like I said, I think those are the minority, and if they aren’t, I…”
He trailed off.
“You’ll what?” Rasilla asked
Norath put a hand to his forehead. “I don’t know. You’re quite certain you’re not working spellcraft?”
Rasilla rolled her eyes. “If I could do that, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“That’s fair,” Norath said. “I guess I just don’t want them to make any mistakes.”
“I wouldn’t appreciate that either.” Rasilla replied, “Though really, I’d like it if I could leave of my own accord.”
Norath took a deep breath.
“I can’t help you.” He said. “I’ve probably overstepped my bounds by freeing your hands already.”
“You don’t have to escort me out.” Rasilla said, “No one has to know you did anything, just… tell me when I might have a chance.”
“I am sorry.”
Rasilla sighed. “It was worth a try.”
“If I could help you, I would, If only because it seems foolish to expect you to help us if we do you nothing but bad turns. I swear I would if I could, but I can’t so I won’t.”
Rasilla hung her head.
“No,” she said, “I understand.”
She looked down at her plate, which she had cleared with surprising efficiency. “Thank you for breakfast.”
Rasilla curled up on herself and turned to the near wall. A moment later, she heard Norath pick up the pitcher, cup and platter and leave.
***
Rasilla saw no one else until the sun was setting, completing her first full day in captivity. Unexpectedly in that late evening, an elven woman burst into the chamber and tossed a bundle of cloth her way.
“Change.” The woman demanded, “And quickly.”
“What?!” Rasilla demanded, “Why? What’s going on? Who are you?”
“My name is Syrielle.” She said, “I’m Norath’s half-sister, and you must change so we can flee this place before the mob arrives.”
“Mob?” Rasilla asked, examining the bundle and finding it to be a set of heavy rot-dweller clothing the likes of which Syrielle herself was wearing.
“Too many, too angry,” Syrielle said, pacing impatiently. “Our leaders will rein them in, but they are liable to tear you to piecemeal for the worms first.”
“And I’m supposed to trust you?”
“Like all of us who still have our sense,” Syrielle said, “I know what will befall us if you die by our hands.”
She wasn’t looking Rasilla. Instead, she was probing the far wall, and, upon finding something to her liking, drew a dagger and cut through the leather skin that made it up.
“Hurry.” She said, “I will wait through this.”
Rasilla hesitated no longer, and began to hastily change her clothes. The rags that she was being provided were hideous patchworks, and more than that they were beneath her station. However, this did not give Rasilla any further pause once she considered whether her dignity or her life was more dear. Thus, as the sounds of shouting began to reach her ears, Rasilla slipped through the gash in the wall.
“You take your sweet time.” Syrielle grumbled. Rasilla, however, had a more pressing concern: they were standing on a ledge not much wider than her foot was long, and some three feet below was a surface of pitch-black mud. She couldn’t tell if it was solid or not, and was almost certain that it was infested with worms either way.
“You call this an escape?” Rasilla asked, incredulous. In the distance, she started to hear voices raised in rage. Arguing with one another, there was no doubt, but the only words she could make out were cries to ‘skin her alive.’
Syrielle looked at Rasilla. “You could stand to show more gratitude, highness, but I do not complain.”
Syrielle began to lower herself down. With some of her weight still supported by the board, she pressed a foot into the treacherous ground.
“It’s firm.” She said, “Come quickly, we must fly.”
Rasilla jumped down, sinking to her ankles in the warm earth, but no deeper. With a few frantic steps, she stood comfortably upon the surface. Already, Syrielle was bounds ahead, and Rasilla hurried to catch up.
The world closed in around the two women, the massive tower-cap fungi growing ever closer together, interspersed with white mold-palms and creeping filaments from countless other species, feeding on the deep Rot and on each other. In that darkening world of decay, Rasilla became disoriented. Never had she run so far, or so desperately. The mighty mushrooms seemed to spin and twist, their parallel stalks weaving a tangled web, Syrielle’s form threading its treacherous turns.
Rasilla couldn’t tell how long it had been when she finally stumbled, but the sun was well set and the path lit by glow-worms and the ghostly lights of spots and shelves. She put one foot in front of the other, and again, and then missed, falling against one of the stalks.
A moment later, Syrielle turned back and helped Rasilla to her feet.
“Come on,” she said, her own voice weary. “If our footprints in the mud weren’t enough, the worms are sure to be able to follow our smell.”
“Who can smell through all of this?” Rasilla asked, knowing full well that her question had already been answered.
Syrielle seemed to think.
“I suppose we have to rest some time.” She said. “We should at least find some stone to rest on… something off the Rot itself.”
Rasilla nodded, and looked around. For a moment at least, she wasn’t so tired her head was spinning, nor tormented by the fear of worms and their masters.
For one possibly deluded moment, Rasilla was at peace with her world.
***
The light broke over the fungal forest, and the world that had been alien and confusing in the dark was transformed by the sun’s pale red glow into something that, while still unfamiliar, was strangely beautiful.
Of course, it still stank beyond belief.
Rasilla stretched her aching legs, and slowly staggered to her feet. As she did, she looked down at herself. Was there an inch of skin or clothing that was not somehow soiled by this place? If Jericho or her parents found her now, would they even recognize her?
“We should move.” Syrielle said, having already been up when Rasilla awakened. “If we keep going this way, we will reach another camp, but it’s hard going.”
“It can’t be harder than last night.” Rasilla insisted. “Nothing could be harder than that.”
“I’m afraid the world has surprises for you still,” Syrielle replied, “Last night, we didn’t have to deal with worm-beds.”
Rasilla’s heart sank “And those are?”
“Around any settlement, there will be lose earth that the worms till. No one knows how deep the pits can go, but if you step in, you might find out for yourself. I knew where they were last night.”
“But you don’t know if they’ll be in our way at the next one?” Rasilla asked, “What good is getting away if we die in a worm pit?”
“You could always back.” Syrielle said, “If you’d rather trust to the mercy of a mob denied, be my guest, but I would think a royal would be smarter than that.
Rasilla sighed. “You go first.”
“Very generous of you, highness.” Syrielle growled, and began to walk onward.
The day’s trek was hard, and Rasilla’s body was not yet used to such exertion. She had run herself ragged in the night, and now she pressed forward without fear to sustain her flight. Still, the trudging was almost automatic. Though her feet and legs protested, she could keep putting one foot in front of another. As her mind, initially refreshed on waking, began to succumb as well she came to two realizations. The first was that if she stopped walking, she wouldn’t be able to start again any time soon. The second was that Syrielle was completely in her own element.
Was it being an elf that let her ignore the pain and exhaustion that dragged Rasilla down, or was it living her life in the Sea of Rot with chores to complete trudging across the boardwalks and fetid earth, breathing in the fungal miasma and eating scraps stolen from the worms?
Whatever the cause, the elf was certainly made of sterner stuff, and for the first time in her admittedly short and sheltered life, Rasilla was made to feel a twinge of jealousy.
She didn’t resent Syrielle her strength, but she did desire the same for herself. And so she trudged, ever onward, determined to not be the first to cry out that she had gone far enough.
Some time after mid-day they rested at Syrielle’s sign. In the time Rasilla spent nursing her legs, the elf foraged about the locale, finding small mushrooms that she guaranteed were good to eat, and grubs that even with such assurances Rasilla was not willing to touch, at least not when she could still see them twitching.
The second leg was more difficult yet, but as the afternoon wore on, Syrielle spied churning earth that was no doubt a pit of tame worms, ready to devour anything so unobservant as to fall in.
The worms, she said, appeared just after the forests died. They were in the ground throughout the Sea of Rot, but only when tamed were they kept in such large numbers as to render the soil nearly liquid with their constant motion. The pits, such as they were, drifted slowly, forcing local exiles to keep aware of their motion and build the boardwalks that would survive a worm colony moving beneath them.
Rasilla wasn’t sure what was more frightening: the thought that there were enough worms in the pits to do that, or the thought that one of those hideous, white things could be beneath her feet, even on solid ground. She had wished for much of her royal life in brief days since the ambush, but never before something so simple as bedrock to stand on.
Before nightfall, one of the scouts of this new hell found them and led them in to the center of the town. As far as Rasilla could tell, it was the same as the last, a thought that made her sick when she saw what that status was.
There were huts and hovels built up with the fungiwood boardwalks between them. A few used one of the titanic mushrooms for support, or were carved into one or set atop the stump of another.
The squalor inherent in the construction was one matter. The squalor of the people living in it was entirely another. Most faces were covered in boils and sores of years in the Sea of Rot. Some were scarred, and barely any would have been presentable even in the lowest reaches of the Grand Fortress. These people, in their current condition, would not have been deemed fit even to serve the royalty of Efaruna.
That thought was, in and of itself, frightening. To realize, see with her own lives that people were condemned to live in such a way was bad. To see the children among them, and realize that most of these folk were no doubt blameless of the crimes for which their ancestors had been sentenced to Rot?
It was almost beyond comprehension.
And yet, despite all that, they were warm to their guests. They had little food and drink, but shared what they did have without being asked. They found beds, as good as any of their lot had, for those who had come unannounced. When they noted Rasilla’s fear of the hideous, gigantic maggots, the worm-guides quietly shooed their pets from sight.
Rasilla considered asking Syrielle if this was normal, or if they would be expected to make some manner of dire repayment for the current hospitality. However, before she did the answer occurred to her. It was not out of a gentle goodness that these practices must have been born, but out of necessity. Any less generosity towards fellow men or women damned to the Rot would have seen all dead in short order.
What she did ask Syrielle is how long they would expect to stay in the village. She replied that she would send word (by what means, Rasilla didn’t ask) to her brother, and that when it was safe to return he would reply, or if it was not to be come himself and help to plot their next move.
Any time in the Sea of Rot was too long by Rasilla’s judgment, but at the same time there was a part of her that wanted to be here, to know what this condition was that was so untenable as to drive her kidnappers to their excesses.
It seemed she was going to learn that first hand, in any case.
***
Sunrise, light filtering through the overlapping caps of the mighty mushrooms. Time to wake up, and start a new day living the life most removed from the one Rasilla once had.
It was five days in the new camp, and Syrielle said it wasn’t surprising she hadn’t heard back. Rasilla still worried, of course, but in those five days it had been surprisingly easy to fall into a new routine, one that started with rising at dawn.
In the dim, crimson light she dressed herself without a maidservant and emerged from a dugout hovel into a festering, reeking mire – one that nonetheless people called home.
At first, she had been shocked and appaled by the poverty, the conditions that the denizens of the Sea of Rot were living in, but as being one of them wore away the shock, she came to realize that they were, at least, living.
It was a harsh life, without trade with the outside world. It was life that could be improved trivially by the crown at the Grand Fortress, but life still found its way. After a fashion, that was somewhat charming. This was, no doubt, what her former captors had wanted her to see, that no matter the crimes of their ancestors, they were now a people that deserved freedom from the worst parts of their condition.
The first great task of a new morning was drawing water from the well, just one of the many contrivances that the locals had to rely on in order to survive. The sides were stone, carefully wrought to keep the sludge of the Rot from seeping in, while the water was deep, deep under the ground. It took Rasilla a few minutes, at least, to haul the full fungi-wood bucket back to the surface. Of course, she was weaker and slower than anyone who had been doing it her whole life would be.
While bringing the precious fresh water back to her temporary home, Rasilla heard a commotion in the distance. Angry, no doubt loud, it came from the western edge of the village… Immediately, she tensed. Had someone learned who she was? Would she have to flee into the Rot again?
Then, there was a crack of thunder, loud and unmistakable. Rasilla’s racing mind quickly hit on one truth in the matter: there was magic involved, for there couldn’t be lightning on such a clear day. Every instinct told her to run. Common sense told her to run away from the sound as quick as she dare, to flee from what was inevitably danger. But, there were new senses growing in her that told her to run towards it, that insisted she, as royalty, needed to know what was happening and do her best to change it, even at the risk of her occultation.
The new impulses won, and Rasilla set down the water and hurried towards the front. She caught sight of it before too long – on one side, a mob of the rot-dwellers stood, speaking all at once and creating a great cacophony. On the other was a line of armored soldiers, bearing the crest of Efaruna on their armor. At the head of the soldiers was an imposing figure, a man towering because most of his body had been replaced with or bonded in the clockwork artifice known as an Iron Frame. Only a few generals, grievously injured in some skirmish or other, had both the opportunity and inclination to suffer such a treatment.
Behind that mighty figure, astride a mechanical steed, was a more familiar one – Jericho, looking both run-down and noble. That was good news, but in front of the general was bad news instead. Two men fallen, no doubt struck down by magical lightning by his order if not his hand. Unless she did something very shortly, there was going to be a battle.
Rasilla began to push her way through the crowd.
“Which of you… Now Speaks… For this place?” The general demanded, his voice booming but slow, driven by bellows rather than proper lungs.
Rasilla couldn’t hear the reply.
“I grow… Impatient.” He continued, “I have… Questions. You will… Answer me. NOW!”
“We have no idea what you’re talking about!” the spokesman apparent for the village shouted back.
“WHERE… IS… THE PRINCESS?”
Rasilla swore, and drove her way through the mass of people even faster, hoping she wasn’t shoving anyone off the boardwalk in her haste. As she had suspected and both feared and hoped, this was about her. She could stop it.
“I don’t-“
There was a tremendous crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning from the general’s hand arcing into the air.
“The one… You stole. Princess Rasilla. Where… is… SHE?”
“We have no idea what you’re talking about!” the spokesman shrieked, “You can’t just come here and kill people who don’t know a blasted thing! We did nothing wrong!”
The general’s reply was calm, as soft as his massive voice could manage, and very dangerous.
“I will not… Ask again… Nicely.”
Rasilla stood tall, waving her arms to be seen.
“I’m right here!” She shouted, “I’m here and these people are innocent!”
Everything started happening at once after that. The crowd, once so thick, parted. Jericho leapt from his steed, calling for her, and though she could not see the general’s mangled face beneath his helm, there could be no doubt that he felt more flustered than most people ever would in their lives.
About as she reached the former front, Jericho met her and embraced her. She responded in kind, and for a moment was too overjoyed by the reunion to remember where they were.
“Rasilla,” he said after a long moment, “Thank the gods, you’re alive, you… Your leg? What happed?”
That brought her back to sense. “I… It’s fine now. Look, Jericho, there have been a lot of misunderstandings. By us, by them, by me…”
She took a moment to look around. Soliders had fallen to their knees, the massive general among them. Many, perhaps most of the assembled rot dwellers had followed suit
“Do you think you could come with me?” she asked, “People are staring.”
Jericho nodded wordlessly, and the general rose
“I will… accompany you… and ensure… your safety.”
Rasilla didn’t exactly want the presence of the once-human titan, but at the same time there was no good way to refuse in front of a crowd.
“Of course, general…”
“Simorah.” He replied, “At your service… Highness.”Rasilla turned, and led Jericho and General Simorah back through the crowd, to the one private place she knew. It wasn’t much for a conference room, but for a few days at least she had called it home. It would have to do.
***
“So,” Rasilla concluded, “That’s how things stand, at least for now.”
“The fact remains…” Simorah said, “That you were… taken and held… against your will.”
“And I would have those responsible held responsible,” she replied, “But that is not every exile in the Rot, or even very many.”
“I can accept that,” Jericho said, “But convincing your parents won’t be easy. His majesty’s stubborn streak is the stuff of legends.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Rasilla said, “After all, I have one of my own.”
“Ah, yes,” Jericho replied with a smile, putting on a show of distress, “How could I forget?”
There was part of her old life that Rasilla had dearly missed. For a moment, forgetting her place, she smirked.
“Perhaps my charm simply compelled you to forget.”
“Well,” he said, grin widening “That is the most obvious-“
“There will be time…” Simorah declared, “For youthful flirting… LATER.”
Rasilla turned sheepishly away. Even as a child she had not been accustomed to being scolded. And she certainly hadn’t considered what she was doing.
“Of course,” She said. “You can forgive me some measure of comfort under the circumstances.”
“Highness…” Simorah replied, obviously trying to sound soft, “You have declared… You will champion… The cause of… these people.”
“Not just these people,” Rasilla protested, “If they’ve been here, unknown to my parents in the Grand Fortress, what is to say the cities are any better understood? The Sea of Rot is just a place to start.”
“All the same… You have… A purpose. While that… Is true… Do not forget it. If you believe… In your cause… It is my… Belief… That you must… See your path through… Even if… The costs be dire. A cause is greater… Than any man.”
For a moment, Rasilla stared at the armored visage of the old general. His words carried a weight of strength, pride, sorrow, and pain all at once. How much had he given to fight for Efaruna? His life, his limbs, even his humanity.
Would she have to give as much in her fight?
Finally, Rasilla broke the moment of silence.
“Are you with me, Simorah?”
“Until… The end.”
“Jericho?”
“Always.”
“Then,” Rasilla said, “We’ll go to the Grand Fortress. Not alone, though. I want to bring a delegation, to show my parents with more than words what’s happening outside those walls.”
***
The world outside the Sea of Rot looked incalculably different after being within, even for a short time. The soil of Efaruna’s plains was dusty and sparse, in most places blowing freely over bare stone. Here and there, scraggly yellow or red grass grew, holding the dark earth together with weak roots. On the whole, little if anything grew strong and green outside the fields of the towns, and some places, like Fort Beryl, had even pulled their powerstone-fed agriculture beneath the surface in imitation of the Grand Fortress itself. Before, she never would have noticed, but in the Sea of Rot there had always been something growing wherever you looked, whether you wanted there to be or not.
When the wind over Efaruna blew from the east, it came with a harsh reminder of her stay in the Sea of Rot. From the north came the acrid smoke of the Plains of Despair, a reminder was of what was lost before Rasilla’s time. If the wind blew from the south or from the west, the air might carry only dust and chill, but whichever way it blew it portended death.
When Rasilla and her party landed in one of the walled towns of Efaruna, she made a point to do what she never would have considered before her ordeal, and looked away from the palaces and towers to the places where the common folk dwelt.
There, she saw that within Efaruna’s borders, things were not as different from the Sea of Rot as she had hoped – people were still dying because they were ignored, succumbing to slow starvation. Everywhere was in a state of decay; an accelerating spiral down the road to dusty oblivion. The farther gone a place was, the faster it seemed to be descending.
Along the way, others had joined Rasilla’s delegation, alongside Jericho, Simorah, and Syrielle. There was a captain of the worm-guides to represent the humans of the Rot, and Norath as well, who had made his way to the village they were staying in the day after the army did. From Efaruna proper the quartermaster of Fort Beryl came, and a woman of some standing with its guild of artificers. There were also the sons and daughters and other representatives of small-town mayors and city lords, sent on behalf of their betters to speak for their homes. Since the Skyship that had built for her in Fort Beryl was more than large enough, Rasilla brought anyone, common or noble, who wished to follow her path and be heard.
Now they stood, a delegation of two score men and women, with Rasilla at their head, feeling for once in her life like the ruler she was destined to be.
But, at the same time, they stood before the gates of the Grand Fortress, and Rasilla felt very small. She did not know how much word of her travels had reached her parents, or how they would react to seeing so many low-born in her company. Soon, though, she would have her answer either way, for they had called at the gates and been answered, and Rasilla had insisted she would not cross the threshold of the Fortress until her parents met her at it.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity standing in front of that unfathomable edifice, the great doors parted, and standing in the frame dressed in all regal finery and attended by liveried honor guard as always, were the king and queen of Efaruna.
“Rasilla, my daughter!” the queen exclaimed, “At last, you’re home! Please dear, come inside, and I promise you nothing bad shall ever happen to you again.”
“Excuse me, mother,” Rasilla said with all proper formality, aware that the success of her aims rested largely on this conversation, “And father too, but it is not my wish to return to the Fortress as it is yours?”
“What?” her father asked, “Why would that be? Surely the amusement of the company of such ruffians as those about you must be wearing thin by now.”
“And after all that happened, dear,” her mother added, “You simply must come inside! I was so afraid just hearing of it, I cannot imagine how it was for you.”
“Your Majesties,” Rasilla said, controlling her temper and suppressing her desire to scream at her parents as she had often done in former days when not given her way, “This is a formal delegation of all the peoples of Efaruna I have visited. In my time beyond your walls, I have seen many terrible things and many wondrous ones. It is my belief that the problems of the land will not be fixed from inside the Grand Fortress. We must go among our people to save them.”
“Save them?” Her father asked, “Rasilla, what nonsense are you talking about?”
“I mean,” Rasilla said, having ever more trouble keeping her feelings hidden, “That the government we control is out of control. Crops molder in the fields of more prosperous towns, while in others the commons go hungry… and that is perhaps the least of the issues aborad. I don’t pretend to have a solution for everything that’s wrong, but the crown must organize the parts of this nation if we are to survive.”
“Rasilla!” her mother exclaimed, stamping her foot, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this little game has gone on far enough.” She surveyed the delegation with disgust on her face “Look at these friends of yours – filthy, most of them… and Jericho! I expected better of you than to admit this rabble in my daughter’s presence!”
Was this the thanks Rasilla was to get? Was she to stand up as a woman and a monarch and still be denied the respect the worm-guides gave to their hideous, bloated maggots as independent creatures? It made her blood boil to think that of all the men and women she had seen since her journey began in earnest, her own parents would treat her the worst.
“These are your people, mother!” Rasilla snapped, no longer able to contain her anger, “They are what you make them! If you do not like how they look, then help me to change it.”
The king stepped forward, just a little, to intercede between his wife and his daughter.
“Now, Rasilla,” he said, “You most have been very frightened. You have gone through things that no young lady should have to endure. It seems to me, that your judgment must be very clouded right now. If you return home, we can look after you, and perhaps after a year, if you still feel the need to leave the security of our home, then we can talk about… whatever it is you want to do.”
“You haven’t been listening.” Rasilla said, tone restrained to merely icy, “I will not go inside again, not until our Kingdom has been seen to as it should be.”
“Are you questioning our rule?” Her father asked, taken aback, “Our way of life?”
Rasilla thought. On one hand, it might be possible to win over her parents from within, but on the other… if she retreated inside the Grand Fortress, it was more likely that she would lose her purpose, and never again find her way out to do the good that she meant for Efaruna. And the king and queen were still her mother and father. They had to come around in time.
“No,” Rasilla said, “I questioned it long before returning here, and found my answer. The way that we have lived is wrong, and is only hurting our nation. It has to change.”
Her father closed his eyes.
“I suppose all daughters must think such things of their parents for a time.” He said. “Go then. You will always be welcome here, when you’ve seen how foolish your words today were, just return and apologize. Until then, as far as I am concerned, you can have the hard life you have asked for.”
Rasilla turned, back towards the crowd and the skyship.
“Then I’ll take the hard way.” She said, “And do alone what you will not help me with. My friends, I am sorry I have brought you here for nothing, but I promise that I will do my best to see our nation made stronger. Whatever power I have, it is yours.” She looked over her shoulder at the Grand Fortress. “Goodbye father. Goodbye mother.”
The queen was less diplomatic than her husband or her daughter. “Jericho!” she called, appealing not to Rasilla but to the man she had set as the princess’ steward, “You can’t let this happen! You promised to protect my daughter!”
“And that’s exactly what I shall do.” He said, turning towards the Skyship himself, “Farewell, your majesty.”
Rasilla and her delegation boarded the vessel defeated. There was not a one of them who did not understand that the weight of the monarchy would not stir, and thus the path to some salvation would be harder than ever before.
Rasilla, though, had some hope yet. She had friends behind her, and many years ahead of her. The path was uncertain, and she did not know if she would succeed in her aim of building an Efaruna that stood tall and proud as it had in the olden days.
But, at least she would try.
> I Am The Night - A story of the Age of Darkness
Interestingly, I've mined this for a YMTC contest, which has resulted in me naming the plane involved Taramir
"Enjoy your screams, Sarpadia - they will soon be muffled beneath snow and ice." THE COALITION WAR GAME -Phyrexian Praetor Round 1: (4-1-2, 1 kill) Round 2: (16-8-2, 4 kills) Round 3: (18-9-2, 1 kill) Round 4: (22-10-0, 2 kills) Round 5: (56-16-3, 9 kills) Round 6: (8-7-1) [current round]
EMERALD PEAKS “I shall except that the purpose of life is to better and to propagate itself. I shall better my life, and the lives that I touch. I shall spread life where I travel. I shall nurture life at home. When the leaves sing in the wind, I shall listen and be obedient to their message. I shall nurture the earth, and be nurtured in return.” – Emerald Acolyte’s Devotional
In Year of Light 16969, a man calling himself Skye Verdantdawn (no doubt an assumed name) rallied mobs of disaffected Vishtal citizens. After several months, local authorities began to crack down on his “cult”, which preached harmony and oneness with nature, and seemed to offer an alternative to the negligent government, calling for people to abandon their jobs and homes to live from the land.
Shortly after persecution in Vishtal began, cells of Verdantdawn’s movement sprung up in Efaruna. However, Efaruna was a nation in glory days, and the call to abandon civilization found far less traction. In the end, Verdantdawn lead his most devoted followers on a pilgrimage through to the mountain range known as the Emerald Peaks.
There, the faithful established a commune. Many of them already practiced green magic before joining Verdantdawn, and many more were educated in it. Though the conclave eschewed the conveniences afforded to ‘mainstream’ civilization, they mastered arts of growth that not only provided food, but shelter and some luxuries as well while throughout the land agriculture was becoming more difficult.
The faithful believed that Verdantdawn was a reincarnation, in human form, of one of the great elvish druids of the Age of Forests. Others sources suggest that Verdantdawn was a half-elf, formed of the taboo union of Taramir’s two greatest races. Whatever the case, he was without a doubt a genius in his craft, both powerful and innovative.
For the duration of his life, the length of which lent credence to both the tales of his spiritual superiority and the rumor of his bastard parentage, Verdantdawn continued to walk among the people of the civilized world, especially Vishtal, seeking out converts for his cause.
“The Emerald Peaks were an exercise in hypocrisy. Its founders, mostly from Vishtal, left their home in protest over their government’s isolation in the Grand Fortress. They then withdrew to their own secret conclave, largely becoming more hidden than the nobles.” – Morgan, Last Lorekeeper of Voor
Recruitment ended with the death of Verdantdawn. The Emerald Peaks, thereafter, became largely reclusive. Either forgotten by the main stream, or though of as a threatening cult, it is likely that one or more nations would have made war on them had they been any more offensive.
In 17133, the Society of the Emerald Peaks did manage to give something back to the world at large – A strange blight began to destroy crops, even those adapted to live without natural light, such as the vinebeds beneath the Grand Fortress. For tense months in spring and summer, it seemed that by the harvest there would either be starvation or war.
However, the Emerald Peaks acolytes came down from their mountain in that year. With the magic they had learned, they not only cured the crop blights for large swaths of arable land, but managed to increase the yields enough that harvests were better than they had been in a dozen years. After that, the acolytes retreated as mysteriously as they had emerged.
Some Lorekeepers suggested that the Emerald Peaks conclave created the Blight as well as cured it, their motive being survival against some nation growing tired of independent thought in the high mountains. If that was the case, the stroke worked masterfully; the peoples of Taramir thereafter regarded the Emerald Peaks as sort of guardian angel.
They would never again lift a finger to aid the outside world.
The Society was destroyed suddenly in 17391, just before the Last Dawn, when the Emerald Peaks gave way to volcanic decay. The newly formed Crumbling Mountains were perhaps the least hospitable lands in the Age of Darkness, and continued to erupt with flows of lava and clouds of sulfur smoke until the end of the world.
"Enjoy your screams, Sarpadia - they will soon be muffled beneath snow and ice." THE COALITION WAR GAME -Phyrexian Praetor Round 1: (4-1-2, 1 kill) Round 2: (16-8-2, 4 kills) Round 3: (18-9-2, 1 kill) Round 4: (22-10-0, 2 kills) Round 5: (56-16-3, 9 kills) Round 6: (8-7-1) [current round]
THE ELVES “When the light first broke over Taramir, we were the ones who were there to see it, and appreciate its beauty. Elves stood tall amidst its virgin fields and young saplings, and knew that all was well and good. We grew proud, for a time, and were punished for our arrogance. Still, we remain, and as we saw the first dawn, so we shall see the last.” – Neyirian Solemnara, Liege of Orien Retreat
Elven culture on Taramir is ancient – they rose from barbarism in the Age of Myth, and dominated the Age of Forests. As in some other planes, the elves of Taramir felt a strong, innate connection to the woodlands. They spread these woodlands over nearly all the surface of Taramir with their druidic magic, creating the Age of Forests.
During the Age of Forests, Elven society consisted of few large nation-states, unified under the rule of a council. However, when the Age of Forests ended, the elves did not re-unify under a single banner. Instead, individual communities, called “retreats”. Some of the Forest Retreats in the Age of Heroes were open communities, while others were reclusive. Over time, the reclusive communities won out, the more open elven retreats fading or falling one way or another. By the Waning Age there were three forest retreats in the Great Forest (Orien, Mashar, and Kelian) northeast of Efaruna, and two more in other woods (Amerat and Liransidhe).
In addition to attempting to have fewer and fewer relations with the outside world, elves also gradually turned against intellectualism and civilization in general. Where the elves of the Age of Forests had founded the Lorekeepers and hosted them at their height, the elves of the waning could be said to, on average, have preferred using books for mulch to reading them.
Some, such as Tala of Tolkas, suggest this was a reaction against the Lorekeepers themselves, reinforced by finding comfort in familiar rituals and the natural world. Others suggest that the reaction was instead a gesture opposed to the artifice that humans engaged in, which the elves may have feared was harming Taramir itself.
Even elven magic practices suffered for their isolation and opposition to progress; In the late waning, they were incapable of maintaining the life of large trees in the failing light. With the forests gone, the forest retreats also fell. Some elves settled on human soil, setting aside their pride and disdain to build walled towns after the human style. Others remained in the Sea of Rot or its minor mirrors, keeping to their luddite, druidic ways, even as fungus and trickle of human exiles made the area ever more unlivable by their standards.
“I feel what I feel, and I feel no shame for what I have done, nor who I love.” – Aimeliara Kiirasi, before her execution.
The relationship between humans and elves on Taramir is complicated. Elves played at least a part in the rise of humanity from barbarism, but civilized humans quickly broke and overran elven political power. As such, relations between elves and humans grew more icy, both politically and personally.
By the Age of Empire, the Elves considered unions between their species and Humans (which had been grudgingly accepted by some retreats during the Age of Heroes) to be the darkest taboos, the violation of which resulted in death. If a half elf was discovered, it would be put to death, as would the elven parent and, if they could manage, the human parent as well. Such violators (or, in the case of the halfblood infants, violations) of the great taboo were ceremonially burned alive, so their ‘tainted’ flesh would not rejoin the earth that should be pure.
Humans, for their part, also largely considered unions with elves to be forbidden, but no human government made a systematic effort to punish mixed-race couples or eradicate half elves. The general scorn and distaste from the human populace, though, helped ensure that remaining in human lands was not exactly a pleasant option either.
Still, there were two heydays for half elves. The first was in the Age of Heroes, especially the middle of the age when humans were becoming strong and elves had not yet isolated themselves nor solidified in their hatred of mixed unions. The second came in the late Waning. Some elves remained in the Sea of Rot simply because it was their home, and the human nations used the place as exile for undesirables of all descriptions. While relations were strained by old hatreds, especially those of the militant elves living deeper in the Sea of Rot, life still found a way, and it is likely there were more mixed marriages and half-elf births per year in the late waning than in any other time period.
"Enjoy your screams, Sarpadia - they will soon be muffled beneath snow and ice." THE COALITION WAR GAME -Phyrexian Praetor Round 1: (4-1-2, 1 kill) Round 2: (16-8-2, 4 kills) Round 3: (18-9-2, 1 kill) Round 4: (22-10-0, 2 kills) Round 5: (56-16-3, 9 kills) Round 6: (8-7-1) [current round]
