The emptiness of the starless midnight sky was all that was.

Then Senachamet, The Great Winding One, began to spin her web, weaving the fabric that would be Teranern, the Jewel. Upon the empty face she spun, a blank canvas, without form. Long did the she-spider toil, long she strained, across that waste, across that endless desert.

Finally Senachamet, Masterful Seamstress, complete in her work, held the mountainless, oceanless vastness in her hands, looking upon it in favor, and a light gleamed in her eye. This was the first light.

And this light began to grow steadily, larger and larger, until that mote became a fire, and Dur, Beast of Flame, leapt from the spider’s eye.

Senachamet breathed, and from that breath came the first air, Din, the Indweller. And the brothers, Air and Fire, did seek to slay the Weaver, for her endless toil made them wroth. So they smote her, and Senachamet did weep (this was the first water) and from this tear came Dal, the Living Sea. And joined he in battle against their great mother.

And they slew her, and buried her body in the sands, and her legs stretched into the Eight Dark Lands beneath the world. But Teranern was without water, or air, or fire, for the brothers were selfish and kept these things within themselves.

“Come,” spake Din, for in his mind, he was superior, and the other two were but beasts, though no beast dwelt upon the face of the earth at that time, “let us make for ourselves children and servants who shall worship and bow before us.” And this was pleasing to the other two, and they drew up sand from the endless earth. Dal placed his hands upon the sand, and it turned as clay, and Dur sculpted it and formed it and baked it, and Din breathed into it the very lifebreath of Senachamet. He was called Ephaldin, for he was the firstborn, and favored above all others by the Three.

Pleased were the Brothers, such that they began to form more, and in the end, Eight there were.
Ephaldin, tall and with darkened features was foremost among the children, and called Kyr (meaning “Lord”).

Andrela was taken by Kyr’Ephaldin as his bride, for she was beautiful beyond description and her eyes pierced even the deepest places of the earth.

Njor, whose skin was as the midnight sky, was the third amongst the gods to be formed, and he was beloved of Dur, for he along knew the mysteries of the Forge, and his hair was as fire.
Kildaer, the quickened one was favored of Din, for he bore wings and sought the secret of the Breath that the Host of Air bore.

Ymra, who desired to travel the empty spaces of the world was mightily endowed and of a pleasing countenance. For this reason, she was taken into Njor’s house and became his bride.

Sephera appeared as a child of a mere two hundred moons, already blossoming. Her skin was as the foam on the ocean, and favored by Dal she was. But chaste she was, and took no husband.

Clerel kept herself apart from the company of others, save one, and they had no love for her.

Aernoss, who would betray the company, was the only ally of Clerel, and was her husband. And being the youngest, he sought the approval of the Three Fathers, but each showed favor to others.

And he was maddened with fury against both element and god.

The gods communed upon the endless earth, upon the endless sand. There was peace and there was solitude.

But Aernoss had different plans.

7000 years later.
1137, The 6th Age.

Another age, another time…

It was night in the city.

Heavy rain fell hard on the broken, ancient, cobbled streets. Winding shadows immersed the ruins, laying across them like a blanket. The buildings, ruined beyond reckoning, ancient as legend, stood guarded sentry over the ghostened hillock, jutting up from the ground like a giant’s broken teeth. River-like streets wound along shattered paths through rubble touched heavily by time and element. A cool, gentle mist hung in the air, kissing everything it touched.

He awoke.

Naked, broken, cold, alone.

A flash of lightning, a symphony of thunder greeted him.

His mind was clouded. He knew nothing, save a burning hatred, a passionate fury and an incalculable rage.

His eyes eased open, great black pits, glistening of onyx. They took in everything they saw, eating up every image like a ravenous wolf. Rising from a crater amidst the rubble, he stepped forth into that scattered city.

He wandered. For months, days, or mere moments, he did not know. Passing each building, he took in every sight, his mind closing around it like a steel trap.

He stumbled upon a pool formed by the rainfall, its surface an inky glass. Kneeling over the blighted, watery plane, he saw himself again for the first time.

His body was toned, sculpted perfectly, as if from the marble of the earth. His ebon hair hung in his face.

His face.

His eyes shone like glistening jewels, black as the emptiness and void. Under his eyes rested a great marking, spreading from temple to temple. Wings like that of a dragon, tattooed across his face, as midnight as his eyes.

This was the Orneron, the Face of Death.

His bare chest bore a similar tale. Across his pectorals, wings spread wide, stretching as his chest rose and fell.

This was the Dorminath, the Armor of Pain.

His arms burned in exquisite agony. On the anterior side of each of his forearms, a rib-like, bone-like blade jutted outward toward his wrists. Ancient words and symbols, unseen by mortal eyes in eons, glowed a darkened crimson across them. He could feel them aching in hunger.

These were the Surashim, the Weapons of War.

He knew his purpose. He was bloodshed, he was pain.

He turned from that pool, unchanged, unmoved.

A flash of lightning, a symphony of thunder.

He wandered out of that city…

Naked, alone.

And death followed him.

Covenant, City of Stone

Covenant, the City of Stone, known so because of its thick stone walls and buildings, rested in the low valley of Tynel in the southern nation of Kylia. The only walled city in the entire peaceful nation, Covenant was originally built as a diplomatic meeting place between humanity and a long dead race, their name forgotten with the eons.

The lethargy of the day had at last set in. Gwyn Mourningwar was tired, and her toned legs and back felt it. “What I fail to understand,” she said to her companion, pouring herself another mug of Spidergrove Wine from the glass jar, “is what he’s running from.” She was a stunning woman of twenty-five years, though the fury of battle had left a few small scars upon her nigh flawless, pale skin. Though unapparent to the untrained eye, her agility was unhindered by the capacity of her inexcusably voluptuous figure.

The tavern, the Vice and Virtue, was an inn that had stood for years in the inner city hub of Covenant. Its stone walls held in the heat, and the chandeliers of torches lit the walls, casting a dim orange glow on the room.

Gwyn was seated across from her companion and fellow mercenary, Kasen Lightcloak. He seemed lost in thought, gazing into his tin mug full of thick Barivian Ale. His shaggy brown hair hung over his pale blue eyes, which shone out like warm, glistening sapphires.

“Hm?” Kasen asked, looking up. Gwyn smiled to herself. She had high, strong cheekbones, and her face was flawless save a single small scar that ran horizontally under her right eye.

“I asked,” she repeated, “what you think it is he’s running from?” Her toned arms rested on the table, turning her glass in her hands absentmindedly.

Looking over towards the fireplace, he stared at their ward. “What, or who?” Kasen said, rubbing his strong jaw, which was stubbled; his last shave was a good week gone.

“What are you getting at, Lightcloak?” Gwyn asked.

Kasen shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s just something about him that worries me. Something’s not right.”

“It never is,” she said. “But if the world was right, we’d be out of a job, wouldn’t we? We do the job,” she said firmly. “His gold’s as good as anyone else’s. Even if he is blind.”

The man in reference sat across the smoke-filled pub by the fireplace. He had seen no more than two dozen years. His eyes were bound with thick fabric, a mantle pulled up over his head, covering his honeyed blond hair. His clothes were that of an upperclass merchant, though they looked as if they had seen better decades. He held onto a battered wooden staff, held together with binding cloth, worn from years of use. He pulled his cloak close to himself warding off some unknown cold, as he muttered to himself.

“We’ve been traveling with him since the Vale,” Kasen said, “and have yet to actually defend him from anything. If he’s actually in trouble, wouldn’t we have some indication by now?” He rubbed his forearms with his fingerless-gloved hands to ward off the cold that emanated even here.

“At any rate,” Gwyn said, turning and looking around the room, “Are you sure we should stay here tonight?”

Kasen shrugged. “It’s as good as any. I’ll not be spending another night under the wagon when there are warm, dry beds to be had within these walls.”

“Going soft on me, Kas?” Gwyn chuckled, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. Her hair was black as ravens’ feathers, as shimmering as a polished onyx, and hung down behind her ears. Her dark eyes were like amber.

“Hardly. But one can only have so much rugged living.”

“I’m just saying,” Gwyn said, “the last time we were here, we didn’t exactly make friends.”

“I have enough friends,” Kasen replied, finally turning away from their charge to look at her and taking another drink from his tankard.

“Don’t fool yourself, Lightcloak,” she said, smirking. “You’re friendless and alone. I’m not even sure why I stick around.”

“Why,” Kasen said, putting his hand to his chest as if shocked, “for the companionship, kitten, for the companionship.” He smiled and whistled for the innkeeper.

The innkeeper approached the table. “What’ll it be?” he asked, his voice rough as leather. He was a surly brute of a man, who smelt of onions and month-old, unwashed sweat. His tattered scraggle of a beard clung to his face like a wolf-pup clings to its mother. Kasen tossed a few coins onto the table.

“We’ll be needing a room for the night,” he said. The barkeep picked up the coins, inspecting them carefully, then reaching into his apron for a key. He placed it on the table.

“Room 11,” he said, walking away.

“You know,” Kasen said, “with this job, we should be able to afford proper inns and taverns. If it wasn’t for those infernal baths you take at every stop, we’d be able to afford a good room on occasion.”

Gwyn stood up, shrugging. She wore wrist-length, russet leather gloves, made from a beast of unknown origin, thigh-high soft buckskin boots and a green leather jerkin held together by bands of pelt cord that showed the top cleft of her chest. She had a polished rapier with an elegant silvered basket resting at her curved hip on a belt that balanced on one pelvis bone and hung beneath the other.

Finishing his ale, he stood, turning to their client. “Hey, blind man!” The man turned in their direction. “Let’s go. We’ve got a room.”

The man stood and turned, feeling his way with his staff in their direction. Gwyn took his arm and led him.

Kasen wore a cloth doublet, chain-mail hidden underneath, which poked out from under his black cloak. His leather trousers were tied up the sides and at his belt, an ancient longsword hung, roughly polished.

He took the candle off the table and all three headed up the stairs to the sixth door on the right. Opening the door, Kasen looked in on a ramshackle room, only around fifteen by fifteen feet. The floorboards were buckling from years of damp and cold. Looking up, he saw that there was a hole in the roof and the rain was steadily dripping in, pooling on the beds and in the center of the floor.

“So much for dry beds.” What’s more, there were only two. Gwyn sat down on one, the mildewed blankets squishing beneath her, and their companion immediately laid on the other one, curling up and quickly falling asleep.

“We could share,” Gwyn said, patting the bed, “if you preferred, but it would be cramped.”

“I’ll take the floor,” Kasen growled, resignedly, taking off his cloak, and setting down the candle on the small table by the door. The ‘sharing-a-bed’ game never ended well…

“You’re sure? There’s plenty of room.”

Kasen laid on the floor, bunching up his cloak and placing it beneath his head.

“Really,” she said, enjoying torturing him, “there’s room.”

Kasen closed his eyes, trying to ignore her.

“Suit yourself.”

The ceiling began to drip, directly onto Kasen’s forehead.

It was going to be a long night.

7000 Years Ago
Excerpt from “The Annals of Teranern”, Chapter II

Then Aernoss, appearing to humble himself, came before Ephaldin, eldest of the Old Gods. In Ephaldin’s tent, Aernoss bowed before him, groveling.

“Oh, Wise Brother,” spoke Aernoss, stooping as a cur. “How is it that we are servants to the Three Fathers?”

“Servants?” Kyr’Ephaldin spoke. He smiled glibly. “We have everything we would want. We may go where we please, are given what we please, may do what we please.”

“Indeed,” said Aernoss. “But what of the days when the gods are not so kind? What of our children? Our Fathers will not be so kind to them.”

“Do not speak such ill tales,” Ephaldin chided.

“Do you not believe me?” Aernoss said. “Ask your wife. She is a seer, is she not? She will see the truth.”

So Aernoss set into motion the events that would betray the company of both god and element.
Ephaldin, Glorious Star, came then to his wife’s side, and lay his head on her lap. But her eyes could see his trouble.

“What is it, my husband?” the Graceful Queen asked.

“I am troubled by thoughts of the future, my only love,” Ephaldin said. “What will be the fates of our children in the hands of the Fathers?”

And Andrela looked to the sky, and sought the Threads of Time which spread across the skies, and connect every being that was, and is, and is to come. There, she saw the fate of their offspring at the hands of her Fathers, and she gasped in terror.

“The vision is unclear. Be that as it may, I see Dur, Beast of Flame, an uncontrollable creature, who lashes out at our children, and burns them from their tents, and takes their very lives.

“Dal, the Living Sea, encroaches on the villages of the children, taking home and life as he strangles the children of their essence.

“And finally, our father Din, the Indweller, shall send great storms that will also take life and limb, and his essence will leave the bodies of those he despises, and they shall not live.”

“How can this be?” King of Gods asked, distraught. “We cannot allow our fathers to harm our children in this way. We must stop them at all costs.”

“How can you say such a thing?” his wife asked. “They have been so kind to us.”

“Can they truly be kind if they would do this to our children?” asked Ephaldin. “We must take up arms against them before they slay our brood.”

And in secret, Ephaldin spoke to his brothers and sisters, and all agreed to the course of action. But Sephera, innocent and virginal, stepped aside, and would not join in the fray.

Njor Anvilheim took up his burnished hammer, and began forging weapons of great power, for each of the War Gods. Working ceaselessly, he bent mighty ore to his will.

For himself he forged the Thunderhammer, mighty in both war and forging, and it was formed in bronze.

For Kildaer he forged Marbillow, a sword of chromium that when swung, sounded as the lapping sea on stone.

For his wife, Ymra, he forged a bow cast of antimony, and it was called Selvara.

For Andrela, Godqueen, he formed a staff of iridium named Gloristave.

Clerel, wife of Aernoss, was given the dagger of dark steel called Gravenmoss.

Aernoss was given the Ophidian, a blade of obsidian, which could convert into a whip.

And finally, Kyr’Ephaldin himself was given a sword called Elegance, a sword of solid gold that shone like the unformed sun.

And the gods made war on their Fathers.

7000 Years Later
Dom Ubel

The citadel sat high on the side of the cliff, grasping onto the pitiless wall like a bat. Its obsidian walls seemed to absorb the very light itself. The spires branched out in all directions, reaching for the sky with their tendriled claws, a single balcony stretching outward over the village.

The simple folk in the village of Austras called it “Dom Ubel”, the Place of Sorrows. No one knew who had built it, or when. As long as there was an Austras, there was a Dom Ubel: over two thousand years. There were some who said that it was built by the First Gods, the Three Fathers who were murdered by their children, the Firstborn. But none knew, for no one had ever set foot inside that bastion of darkness. It had been abandoned by the gods, and no life went anywhere near it.

The village was small, only a smattering of small stone and wooden hovels surrounding a gathering square in the center where a large well stood. The thatched roof cottages had stood there, unchanged, since the age of bronze.

It happened upon one day that a cloaked man came to the village. He wore black robes that did little to disguise his hulking form. The villagers, a simple people, had not had a stranger in their lands for over three hundred years. He brought nothing with him, riding in on a black charger that stood over seven feet high at the shoulder.

There was a small pathway along the side of the mountain that led up to the village from the foothills below and he was seen at least two hours before he arrived. The villagers gathered in mute anticipation in the square to greet their guest. As they waited, the clouds rolled in, and a steady rain began to fall.

Rounding the final corner, the cloaked figure rode into the square, and slowly stopped.

Dismounting, he stepped forward. The High Elder of Austras bowed complementarily, and smiled, though this man brought an aura of unease with him. “May we help you, sir?”

The man didn’t reply at first.

A flash of lightning, a symphony of thunder.

The High Elder saw his eyes. Black pools of darkness. Dragon wing markings across his face.

The prophesies of the village foretold of this man’s coming. He was the Asaia, the Harbinger.

The High Elder bowed, and the villagers followed in turn.

“What do you require, my Lord?”

The man leaned in and whispered in the High Elder’s ear.

“Food.”

Grabbing the old man by the scruff of his neck, the dark visitor threw back his other hand, revealing an ancient, bone-like blade protruding from his wrist. He thrust it forward, sliding it between the ribs of the Elder like a scythe through grass. The old man gasped as his skin quickly paled.

The villagers gasped, and some of the men stepped forward to stop him. The man in black dropped the High Elder to the ground, and the villagers saw the true horror of the moment.

Blood glistened off the blade, heavily coated in ichor. But instead of the red liquid dripping from the blade, it was slowly absorbed into the small rune-like lettering that ran along the bone.

The cloaked man sighed, satisfied.

“I am your master now,” the darkened man announced, his voice carrying over the village. “I am Tan’Dal, the Bringer of the New Age. I have returned home!” He thrust his blade upwards, pointing towards Dom Ubel. Rain poured down on him, soaking his robe.

“I shall need servants…”

Covenant

Kasen was woken in the night by the clashing of blades. Outside their window, the steady ringing of steel leapt to his ear. Springing to his feet and reaching for his longsword, he looked around the room furtively. The candle had long since gone out, but a new light shone in through the window.

Looking out, he saw that their room was seated above a large meeting square. There, torches had been placed so as to shed light on the gatherings below.

A large crowd had gathered, but parted in the middle around a circle, within which stood two combatants. Copper, bronze and silver pieces were littering the ground as people cast money at the two shirtless men in the center. Both held blunted swords, nicked and dented from heavy abuse. One man, a large brute of nearly seven feet, wielded a two-handed sword in one hand, swinging it like a club at the smaller man who leapt aside to avoid the blows, and, when unable to dodge, raised his wooden shield in defense. With each strike of sword on shield, large splinters of the shield broke off and knocked the smaller man back.

The smaller man was around 6 feet tall and held a single-handed blunted sword. His face was unkempt, and his brown hair glistened with sweat. His body bore scars as if a great beast had raked its claws across him.

The larger man swung downwards, knocking the smaller to the ground, driving the shield against his body. As soon as the sword raised, the man leapt to his feet and backed away.

The next blow drove him back into the crowd, who picked him up and threw him back in the ring.

“It’s time to die, Winterborn,” the brute shouted.

“Been there before, Graves,” the smaller man replied, smirking. “It wasn’t so bad.” He leapt forward, knocking the larger man’s blade aside with his shield and striking him across the ribs with the blunted blade. The nicks in the blade drew blood, and the beast howled. He stumbled back, and was unable to defend from the flurry of blows by his enemy. Strike after strike came down upon the animal Graves, to the arms, the chest, the stomach and legs. Finally, he had enough, and dropped his sword to the ground.

“I yield!” he shouted.

The crowd began to both cheer and boo.

Winterborn walked around the circle, looking menacingly at the crowd.

“Is there no one else?!” he bellowed. The crowd looked upon him uncomfortably.

“I thought not.” He reached down and began to pick up the coins off the ground. The crowd slowly disbursed, until he was alone in the square.

“Can it be…?” Gwyn said. Kasen jumped. He had not heard her awaken. She was looking out the window next to his. “It is!”

She pulled on her boots and bolted out the door.

“Gwyn?” Kasen called after her. Muttering, he followed.

Emerging out of the tavern into the square, Kasen and Gwyn saw Winterborn still picking up pieces of coin. They remained in the shadows.

The blind man leaned in and whispered into Gwyn’s ear. “Do you know this man?” Gwyn started, and Kasen jumped for the second time this night. He hadn’t heard the man sneak up on them.

“Know me?” Winterborn called out. “We grew up together.” He looked up from his work through his mess of hair. “Hello, Gwyn.”

“It’s been a long time, Caymas,” Gwyn said, stepping out of the shadows. “What has it been, seven years?”

“Eight, this autumn.”

Kasen stepped forward. “If you don’t mind my asking, who is this?”

“Kasen Lightcloak, meet Caymas Winterborn,” she said, gesturing between the two. “The man in the shade hasn’t told us his name. He’s traveling with us for protection.” She looked at Kasen.

“Caymas and I were good friends in our childhood. When he turned seventeen he left our village in Myyn, taking my brother with him. Neither has been seen or heard from since.” She looked around. “Speaking of which, where is my brother?” Caymas began picking up coins again.

“Cay?” Gwyn said, quietly, steadily. “Where is he?”

-=*=-

The graveyard was cold, chilled with the souls of a thousand restless dead. A fog hung in the air. Just outside the city gates, the silent tombs stood testament to lives lost, both noble in ignoble. Huge and sprawling, it took a five minute walk past gravestone after gravestone. Finally, Caymas stopped. He put down the lantern.

“The light goes no further. The spirits won’t allow it.” He continued forward, confidently.

“Are you sure about this?” Kasen asked Gwyn. She ignored him, continuing on. The blind man followed, feeling his way with his staff.

The temperature began to drop drastically. A chill froze the bones, and fog obscured two moons, mere slivers in the sky. The branches on the trees here drooped, as if mourning the loss of all these souls. Caymas stopped again. Sadly, he turned around, and gestured to a single, simple grave. Gwyn approached it, dropping to her knees. She reached out, brushing her hands across the stony surface and the etched name.

HERE LIES JANSEN MOURNINGWAR
A GOOD BLADE, AND A GOOD FRIEND
1114-1137
THE SIXTH AGE

Gwyn silently began to weep.

“If it’s any consolation,” Caymas said softly, “he died well.”

“There’s no way to die well,” Gwyn said bitterly.

“Hush!” the blind man said, turning his head to hear a sound.

“What is it?” Kasen asked.

“Shhhh!” the blind man spat.

Gwyn slowly stood, looking around. The graveyard was silent. Not even the midnight birds sung.

No wind, no sound. A cold crept over the yard.

It came upon Caymas first. A black, shadowy thing, fluid in shape, clawing at his back.

“It is here for me!” the blind man hissed.

Caymas grabbed the shape, pulling it off of himself.

It was dark, sinister, spectral. It was like a robe of pure darkness. It hissed angrily, lunging again towards Caymas as he spun around to face it.

Caymas fell back this time as it attacked him. Invisible claws scratched across his chest. Kasen leapt forward, swinging his sword across the thing. It moved away as easily as water, its fluid shape hurling itself towards Kasen instead.

It couldn’t be stopped. It shrieked an unearthly cry, setting upon Lightcloak faster than the eye could track. Gwyn reached forward, trying to pull it off, but it simply wrapped around Kasen, clawing at him with unseen hands. The blind man stepped forward in front of Caymas.

“Thing of darkness,” he cried. “It is me you want.” He stood there, facing the shape. It detached from Kasen, who even now was covered in deep gashes, and hovered for a moment. It made the appearance of turning towards the man.

Howling, it hurled itself forward.

As it drew within a few feet of the man, he thrust his hand forward, and a large burst of flame engulfed the shroud.

Its cries could be heard for miles. It shot up into the sky, and off into the distance, crying out in anguish along the way.

Caymas, Gwyn and Kasen turned to the blind man in shock.

Kasen was furious. “You’re coming with us.”