<body>In the beginning, when the world had no
form, no features, there was only Elkyn, the Maker. Elkin grew displeased with
the world, and created life. But life needed a vessel in which to manifest
itself, so Elkyn created trees. To watch over the trees, he created, out of
himself, Eldrihoth, the shepherd of the leaves.But the world was quiet and the
trees were bare, so, out of himself, Elkyn created Naphrin, goddess of beasts.
But the trees and plants soon grew thirsty, so Elkyn created water, and
Morathoph, god of the abyss. But soon the world became overpopulated by the
animals, and, out of himself, Elkyn created Imbroloth, the god of death and
pain. And for a while, all was in balance and good. But soon the gods grew
tired of the world, and created man, to watch him and laugh at his futile
attempts at understanding life. But while the deities had made man, Imbroloth
had given man hate, spite, greed, and envy. The other gods had found this out
and banished him, sending him down to the world they had created, and he fell
at the Mouth of Blackening, the pit in which he slept and sleeps and will
sleep. While Imbroloth fell, the gods realized that the fall would not kill
him. They gave to the king of men the Faith of the Norwinde, a great blade
forged by the gods themselves on the great anvil of the Adrionoghe, with which
to protect himself and his people
from the dreamer. Imbroloth will sleep until the son
of the father wakes this dreamer from his slumber, and only the son can smote
him with the blade of his fathers into the blackness in which we will all of us
be judged
-excerpt from the book of Yivyne
Our world was chaos. And the worst kind of it,
too. Religious chaos. Long ago, there
was one faith, and one faith only. We used to believe that Elkyn was supreme,
and the other gods, like us, were his servants. But it was the mountain folk,
the Nullroth, who first questioned Elkyn’s supremacy. They thought, if he was
so divine, then why did he need the other three gods? Couldn’t he do it all
himself? That’s when the great faith was shattered into two faiths: Elwren, and
truists. The truists stayed faithful to Elkyn, and the Elwren began their own
beleif system: consisting of many Gods, the greatest being Remogliath, God of
the forge. The Truist had their own rebuttle, according to the Ahm, the most
holy book in their faith, he made the other gods out of himself. But soon, the
truists split up too. The Old Truists, staying rigidly faithful to The Book,
believed that they had found the so called “son of the father,” and began a
pilgrimage to wake the dreamer. But the New Truists believed that “the son”, a
peasant boy from Washroad, could not possibly be the savior.
The Old Truists
were crazy zealots, nobody questioned that, but they stayed with them for fear
of being sent to The Blackness when they died. Then, after being unable to find
this so called, “Mouth of Blackening,” they pulled a stunt to stop people from
joining the New Truists. They killed the boy, an innocent, in the name of
Elkyn. This split even the most faithful into a spiral of religious confusion.
Was murder, a most sinful crime, in the name of Elkyn, alright?
Some said yes,
some said no. Some of the more senile
Old Truists even believed that Elkyn let the boy, who died of repeated clubs to
the head, die because the New Truists had not stayed faithful. Not faithful to their faiths, more likely. In a freak
turn of events, the Elwren were the most peaceful, because if you did not
believe in Elwren, you could begin your own belief system. And, because the new
truists, henceforth referred to in the lower case, did not believe in a king,
the Elwren had many. Some may not like it, but I am saying so: people need to
like their religion, and if they do, they need a leader who would set the laws
that applied to the day, not some centuries old manuscript taken in
misinterpretation. So the majority of former old truists did just that. They
elected a leader, an ‘Ohm-wreka’ or leader of faith. The kingdom of faith, a
huge, colossal citadel known as the Ohme, or Faith, was established. And once
again, people refused. Many, many faiths erupted, the most tranquil of which
was the ‘primitive, savage’ religion of Elwren. But enough of the old. We grew
unfaithful, and many, like myself, did not believe in anything for a while.
What the faiths of the north needed was a king, one who was un-biased, a
military leader. But we would need one fast, tto unite the Peoples of The
North, for another faith was growing. Far to the south, the children of
Imbroloth were searching and scouring the lands of the north, south, and east.
Searching for The Son. And Imbroloth lie in wait laughing in his sleep, fully
aware of everything happening. We were losing our faith, something that would
drive even the smallest child to war willingly, and we were growing unprepared.
Soon The Son would wake the Dreamer, and Imbroloth’s will be done true. It
started like all the great tales of yore, with a hero who did not want to be
one. I remember it well. The day my life ended, the day my life began anew.
“C’mon, Beldas!!” My friends shouted to
me. It was almost dusk, and the world was an explosion of color. The sun was
setting outside of my window, purples and yellows and reds, and across my dusty
room I could see out my other window. I was a calming deep blue. I used to
write stories in my spare time. But that was before I lived one. My quill was
dripping slowly with ink, and my yellowed parchment was almost dry as I sat
there beside my window. Damn, I
thought as I struggled with writer’s block. I was genuinely frustrated, as if
it were the end of my days if I did not finish an insignificant story. The
great pumpkins were carved and lit, candle illuminating their laughing grin. I
put m parchment down, and ran outside. The door was already open, and a few
leaves were dancing around on my wooden, dusty floor. I was barefoot, and the
crunching of the tan, dead leaves under my feet felt great. I looked over my
shoulder and down the hill, my friends were waiting, ankle deep in leaves.
Leaves, leaves, they were everywhere. The trees, adorned with huge, angry reds
and golden yellows of the dying leaves, formed a roof over the dirt road. From
the hill, I could already see candles and pumpkins being set on the tables,
pinpoints of yellow and orange. I could smell the pies and turkeys and bushels
of apples being cut, ah, I loved this town. As I shut the door, a brisk breeze
blew, and my friends again yelled, “c’mon! We don’t got all day!” The reason for all the festivities was the
Sending, a ceremony where all the people born in this town who have died in the
last year would enjoy one last festival
here in their hometown, then go to paradise. Two men where setting up a big banner,
saying, “Yr wy’n edivara cymnaint
a’r Gwr laggog ei Vigri!!” which
in Vinaya, the language of this town, Entheen,
meant, “for those we like and for those we love, let them be welcomed in the world above!” It was a custom here for
us not to mourn the dead, but to celebrate their passage. Before we go to the
festival, we leave flowers and desserts at the graves of our dead. Over a small
picket fence, in the town cemetery, I could see a small girl crying over a
small, grey, upright rock with a drawing of a dog nailed to the ground. “Come ooon, were gonna leave without ya!!”
“Coming!” I shouted I ran down the hill, under the banner, and into the valley.
They had a maypole set up, and many tables. Kegs were being unloaded from a cart.
And even the mules and horses seemed to be excited about the festivities. The
whinnied and snorted, apparently smelling the oats being salted for them, and
the many cubes of sugar being cut. W had a magnificent harvest this year, and
we had tons of food to spare. The mayor of Entheen, a man named Connall
Malligain, was dressed in his finest
clothes as he stepped up to the wooded podium set up at the highest hill.
He looked around sternly. “We have gathered
here to begin the great ceremony of...” “Oh get on with it, Connall!” said a
man in the crowd. The crowed chuckled. “Indeed. Anyway, my lovely wife Newdoria
will be performing the opening ceremony.
Are you sure you want to go
through with this?” he whispered to his wife. The woman nodded. Indeed,
this small, plump man had a wife that every woman in town treated with jealous
eyes as they slapped their husbands for gawking at her. She had blond hair to
her waist, with fair green eyes that no man alive could lie to. She was wearing
a billowing white robe, and several beaded necklaces. The hair that hung down
in front of her ears was braided, and she walked with great strides. One of my
friends, Tom, whispered something about her in my ear, chuckling, when I
punched him in the gut. He buckled over, but was still chuckling. She opened
her mouth and began to sing. As she did, a strong wind blew, and a chill went
down my spine. “They’re here,” I whispered. Tom nodded.
Cladwyd Cylart celfydda,
Ymlauneau, Efionyd.
Parod giuio i’w
gynydda,
Parai’r dymn,
yr helai Hyd.
It was an ancient hymn, untranslatable into
today’s tongue. As she sang, the trees rustled wildly, the wind picking up. The
wind whispered, and it sounded like voices. I was so terrified when I was first
allowed to go to the Sending (children under the age of four are believed to be
in the process of choosing a soul, therefore are free game in the world of
spirits; they were protected for the rest of the year by the ceremony at the
end of each sending), especially after I heard the voices. And when I saw the
stigmata of the Singer. It was happening now; large red stains where covering
the sleeves of her gown. But she kept singing, though wincing with pain.
Cladwyd Cylart celfydda,
Ymlauneau, efionda.
Parod giuio i’w gynydda
Parai’r dymn, yr helai Hyd.
She was provoking
the spirits, bringing them out. They were angry; they did not want to leave,
they wanted to have their vengeance. If she wavered, her song being the only
thing from killing everyone in the field by calming them, she would be the
first one they killed. They were insane with hate, and they would never be
satisfied. They did not realize that, though. I began to feel hideously,
painfully angry. Then, a calm, acceptance of inevitability. The spirit let go
of me. The woman’s dress was a deep crimson with blood. As she sung one more
time, a small trickle of blood slid down the corner of her mouth. The stigmata
would be ending soon.
Cladwyd
cylart celfydda,
Ymleaneau, efiond.
Parod giuio i’w
gynydda,
Parai’r dymn, yr helai hydd!
She shut her
mouth, and the song ended. She smiled, bowed, and then headed back to her
house. Her feet left prints of blood. “The mayor’s face was pale. “W-well, let
the festivities begin...” He looked like
he was going to be sick. He hurried off after his wife. The town barkeep, a man
named Siggins,
stepped up to the
podium, cleared his voice and said, “Ahem. What mayor Malligain was trying to say is... LET THE FESTIVAL
BEGIN!!!” A huge roar from the crowd, and the town bards began playing with a
passion. It was grand. The chorus was singing the song of Cylart, a myth in
which a man who lived in the town of
The remains of Cylart, so faithful and good,
The bounds of
Cantred conceal;
Whenever the doe
or stag he pursued;
His master was
sure of a meal.
And yes, the fool master was coming home from a hunt
When he found the hounds muzzle, and he was quite blunt;
When he witnessed the blood atop the dog’s face,
He thanked the poor mut with the side of his mace
Then he entered the babe’s room and found him asleep,
And on the floor,
it was after some meat
There was the wolf that
the dog had slain,
And the fool
master cried, and cried again.
The remains of Cylart, so faithful and good,
The grounds of
Cantred conceal;
Whenever the doe or
stag he pursued
His master was sure of a meal.
It was a sad song,
but the bard’s played it so well, it was cheery. Old men were telling tales to
young children, this being their first time here, about the great warriors and
adventurers that were here tonight. They gasped and cheered. Men drank pints,
women drank wine, and children drank cider. The turkeys and chickens were great,
the apple pie was greater, and the dancing was best.
Eventually, night
fell and we kept dancing. But something was happening that we did not know of.
Far to the south of us, the agents and children of Imbroloth where searching,
scouring, for The Son. Villages where being pillaged. How did they know who the
son was? It was told to them by their master that The Son had a Scar that would
never heal running down his back. And until they found one with that scar,
their rape of the land would continue. But someone, someone who was helping the
faiths of the north fight this unseen threat, was coming. Coming here. To Entheen.
We were pretty
sheltered here, not knowing of the chaos going on around us. And I was probably
the most sheltered person in town. I had no Idea why, but my parents were
overprotective, and my brother, Leren, hated me for it. He was two years older
than me, and when I came to my parents, he didn’t say anything. But when they sheltered
me, never let me play outside, always saying they didn’t want to lose me, his hate grew over the years.
And last year, he stated it to me. I remember it well. Why do you have red hair when mum and dad have brown hair? He asked
childishly. Why are you talking like
that? I said, oblivious. I’m just asking. Why are you so different
from us? He said. My confidence was faltering. I’m not different. Red hair just..skips a generation, that’s all. But I wasn’t so sure. Oh, it does? Who had it before dad? Huh? Before mum? He was teasing
me, that’s all. He would say he was just kidding soon. I hoped. Shut up! I shouted. Just
shut up! He knew he was getting to
me. And why do you have green eyes? Mum
and dad have brown eyes. I went to bed then. And it haunted me to this day.
But back to the
story. After we were done dancing, the final ceremony began. As we once again
gathered around the podium, something in the woods caught my eye. Two small,
pale blue stars shone in the dark woods. But something deep down told me that
those were no stars. “C’mon. I’m tired,” Tom said, yawning. I walked slowly, my
eyes following the two stars. I think they followed me, too. They disappeared
into the blackness of the woods, and I ran. “For the ending ceremony, my wife
Newdoria once again.” His wife still
looked pale, but she still spoke:
“Tonight, many of
your relatives are here. Not only are the spirits of the recently deceased
gathered here withus, but also spirits who wished to see you again.” she said,
smiling. “But when the...” She stopped,
looking surprised. “I...
“Huh...huh...” I
looked around, and all was well. Except for one thing: the window across the room was torn open. My breathing
quickened again. I backed up into my door again, but two huge arms grabbed me.
A huge, sweaty palm went across my mouth, and another around my neck. I was
terrified, seeing stars, sure I would die soon. I just wanted it to be over
quick. Sharp black fingernails cut into my face, and I couldn’t breath. Finally
a voice whispered, “Be still. I will let go of you, but if you yell or speak or
make any noise, I will remedy that.” I didn’t
want to anger who ever this was. I very slowly stepped away from who- what could have killed my in a second. I
turned and saw the same pale blue eyes. “A Ma’hi!” I whispered. A sharp, pointed
blade just barely pierced the flesh of my throat, and I could fell a trickle of
blood un down my neck.
A Mah’rhi was a
race from Dashona, the Wild Continent. No one but the Mah’rhi knew where their
race originated from. Little to nothing was known about them. They had a face
like a lion, and ranged from seven to eight feet tall. This one had black fur,
and had white-gray hair. He had many tribal tattoos, a bead necklace, and was
clothed with a kind of knee high skirt with designs and beads, like a kilt. He
was barefoot, and his feet resembled a cross between human and tiger feet. He
had a pike (that was currently piercing my throat) with white-red feathers and
beads. A multitude of leather straps crisscrossed over the many blades stemming
from the center one, like a spider web. His white-gray hair was tied back, and
hung down over his broad shoulders in dredlocks. His catlike ears where pierced
many times, and his eyes stared menacingly. He was very intimidating.
“I told you not to
speak.” “Who’s that? Oh- !” Tom was barely done speaking when the Ma’hi pinned
him to the wall several feet off the ground, with his foot. “Agg... let go of
me!” “Let him go!” I hissed. “If you take off your shirt,” he whispered. “What?! Sorry, uh I’m not like that...” Tom chuckled. “This is not a time for jokes, boy! Just take it off and turn around!”
he hissed. He was the one with
the spear, after all. So I did so. I
heard a gasp. I turned and put my shirt back on. “What?” he dropped Tom and ran
past me. He kicked my door open and shouted “follow me!” there were men
fighting outside, as Entheen had a supply of weapons like swords and spears.
The men from Entheen were holding their own. Then the Mah’rhi began fighting.
He threw his pike at one of the invaders, and when it pinned the man’s body to
the ground, he put his palms on the end of the pike and lifted himself off the
ground. He kicked the men around him, not one of them in vain, and tore the
pike out of the ground. He spun around
with his pike, disemboweling them. He charged with his pike, and I stayed close
behind him. He was surprisingly good at fighting even without his pike. We ran into the woods, and I left the town of