The Age of Sorrow

[SKELII]

- THE AGE OF SORROW -​

For nearly 200 years, the Dragons of Vazrkših have been missing. Being worshipped within the nation as living gods, their absence has shaken the nation to its core and ushered in an age of instability and internal crisis - the Age of Sorrow. With no signs of their return, the Commander of the Dragonguard, who has seized control of the nation in the Dragons' absence, has called upon the nations of Sorras to report any sightings of red-scaled Dragons within their lands over the past 134 years, sending official letters, diplomats, and even spies to all corners of the known world.

---

THE CALL​

A rare silence falls over the usually-bustling streets of Bagārnidūbmi, the City of Revelation, where the dragon Bagar first revealed himself and his kin to the peoples of the Vazrkših. From the city gates to the doors of Bagar's Palace, the city's main street - the White Road - is lined with spear and shield-wielding Dragonguards.

Today marks the 134th anniversary of the disappearance of the dragons from the realm. Every year since they have vanished, the day of their disappearance has been a somber one. In the city of Bagārnidūbmi, it has become a sort of holy day of remembrance, marked by a great procession of priests through the city streets, carrying on gold palanquins the realm's holiest relics; a shed scale from Bagar himself, the egg tooth of Bahris the Firstborn, and several first editions of holy texts transcribed verbatim from the Dragons' own words.

The Dragonguards kneel as the priests pass. Silent prayers and muffled cries can be heard from the onlookers, many of whom are city residents but some pilgrims that have begun to come to the city to observe this yearly rite. The clergy maintains that the displaying of these relics is of utmost importance - all those who had seen the Dragons with their own eyes are now dead. Without care being taken to maintain devotion to the Way, the people could easily begin to resign their old mentors to the stuff of history and legend.

Inside the palace itself, Commander Xakvān of the Dragonguard kneels in silent meditation in the courtyard, where in years past the great dragon Bagar himself would sit as his followers came to him for advice and education in the Way. Now, it lies empty and unused, the only people there other than Xakvān himself being the temple keepers, sweeping away the sand that gathers in the massive open-air space. Opening his eyes, he traces with his finger a massive claw mark on the tile in front of him.

"Mivrāim Mšaxik," utters a voice behind him. Xakvān does not stand; he does not need to, he would know this voice anywhere.
*"Mivrāim Mšaxik"; Honourable Commander. A traditional form of address within the Dragonguard for the Commander.

"Aršābxās, anšūi, it is good to have you here, even today. How are things in Xinših?" Xakvān, despite his friendly words, speaks with an emptiness in his voice.
*"anšūi"; Can be translated as meaning comrade or companion, but also used for siblings and cordial equals, such as between two rulers.

"Uneventful, as always," he says, dropping his helmet and sitting next to Xakvān. "The endless argument about whether the tax for ships going through the strait should go to Amnkrādbmi or Danšarzavbmi remains endless."

Xakvān sighs. "I thought I resolved that a long time ago. Neither should tax ships that pass through the strait, only those that dock in their respective ports."

"Anšūi, until you take the side of one city or the other, they'll never consider it settled." Xakvān smiles. It had been months since they spoke last. "Why aren't you outside with everyone else?"

Xakvān looks away from the claw marks on the tile, and into his friend's eyes. It's only then that Aršabxās can see the tempest of uncertainty and sorrow behind Xakvān's eyes.

"Have we failed, Aršābxās?"

The question takes him by surprise. For as long as he has known Xakvān, he's been a bastion of discipline and certainty - in his faith and in the mission of the Dragonguard most of all.

"Our one purpose," he continues, "was to protect the Dragons from all harm. To execute their will. To heed their every command. We were never directed to usurp the Mūkadjim Mkarim's post. Whatever may have taken them from us, we did not defeat it in time. Wherever they have gone, we did not follow."

It's clear that Aršābxās had never considered this before. The same uncertainty he saw behind Xakvān's eyes begins to rise in him. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

"We cannot control what we are called to, nor when the call comes. Only if we answer it."

"Epistles of Keresh," Xakvān replies. He follows suit of Aršābxās, sighing deeply. He stands, picking up his helmet and looking into its eyes. Unlike his predecessors, Xakvān elected to wear the standard armour, adding only a red shoulder cape to set himself apart from his fellow Dragonguards. "It seems I need to spend more time reading scripture."

"I think the procession should be reaching the doors of the palace soon," Aršābxās says, rising as well and putting his helmet back on. "Still can't believe the poor priests have to carry those palanquins up all those stairs."

"One of them collapsed in the palace's Great Hall last year," Xakvān adds, smirking.

"Are you serious??" Aršābxās lets out a loud laugh, startling one of the temple keepers with the sudden noise.

"Almost knocked another one on the way down. They were carrying a first edition book of Merathis' prophecies, too. Thank Bagar it didn't go down with them."

Aršābxās nearly collapses himself from laughter, only for his helmet to slide off, starting him right back up.

"Alright, come on, get yourself together. You're making me look bad."

It takes a few minutes, but finally Aršābxās recovers.

"Alright - I'm alright. Just know, if one of them falls again this year I'll burst a lung."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," Xakvān jokes. "And, also,... thank you. For listening."

Aršābxās smiles, placing his hand on Xakvān's shoulder.

"For you, anšūi, anytime."

They walk through the doors into the Great Hall, where several keepers are hurrying about to ready the hall for the procession's arrival, which following the relics will include as many people can fit in the hall - and given that it was constructed to have the room to fit Bagar himself (albeit when he was smaller then than when he was when the Courtyard was constructed), hundreds of the faithful would be crowded into the space, and in the lower yard outside, easily an additional thousand.

"Got a good speech planned for us this year?"

"I think I do now," Xakvān replies, placing his helmet on his head and once again becoming the Mšaxik Mūkadimdrajhaim.
*"Mšaxik Mūkadimdrajhaim"; Commander of the Dragonguard.

---

The massive copper doors to Bagar's Palace are opened slowly, the bright sunlight and desert heat quickly entering the Great Hall. Already behind the convoy of palanquins, people are filing into the lower yard of the Palace, some preparing to ascent the next flight of stairs to enter, others accepting their lot and trying to get a spot in the shade of the palms. The glittering gold vessels and their sacred relics begin filing in, the exhausted priests quickly moving to set them down. Aršābxās, guarding the right door at the entrance, watches them intently. Xakvān expects that if he could see his mouth, it'd be stretched into a grin of anticipation.

As the last of the relics enters, Xakvān begins to walk down the steps towards the doors, where he will give his speech to the people amassed below before they enter to attend a lengthy sermon. As he passes the sentry guards stationed in the Great Hall, they join at his side, marching in two single file lines behind each shoulder. Stepping outside, the full extent of the day's heat hits Xakvān. He steps out to the edge of a small landing that extends out through the middle of the stairs. From there at the edge, he can see the full extent massive crowd below, their individual faces looking so small from his perch. The guards leave his side, filing down to their posts along the staircase. Thousands look up at him, and in seconds, they are silent as they await his words.

"People of the Vazrkših," he begins, speaking as loud as his voice will allow.

"I address you today as Commander of the Dragonguard, Protector of the Realm. On this solemn day, 134 years ago, the Dragons vanished. For 122 of those years, the Dragonguard has answered the nation's call, and has led and protected our homeland in its time of greatest need. But before this, the Dragonguard had another purpose." He pauses. "We were formed on the 316th year of the Age of Dragons, under the direction of the mirāz Keresh, with our purpose being first and foremost the defense of the Dragons, our benefactors."

Xakvān pauses for a half of a second, affirming within himself that he was actually about to say what he was about to.

"My people, the Dragonguard has failed in this one, holy task." Immediately, a great murmur rises from the crowd. Even the other warriors of the Dragonguard are taken aback, breaking their steely composure to look at one another for confirmation that they actually heard what was just said.

"In failing to do this, we have failed you, and by extension we have wandered outside of the Way. But I ask you, here and now, people of the Vazrkših, to forgive us, and to follow me as I lead our nation back on its righteous path. On this day of remembrance, let us not mourn, but be reinvigorated; The search for the Dragons must resume. But we will look past our borders. There will not be a stone in Sorras left unturned. We will search every land from Sorov to the Naipra. We will cross the Sunset Sea and sail around the world if we must. If our Dragons can be found, then I swear to you, here and now, I will find them, and I will see to it that they return to the Sacred Land."

For a moment that feels like a century, there is silence. A chill of doubt shoots through Xakvān - Immediately he begins to suspect the worst. This will be the end of the Vazrkših. He has told them that their already unrightful leader has now failed them. The nation will crumble overnight. A return to the Age of Darkness. A total loss of the Way. And just then, the people erupt into raucous cheering unlike anything he'd ever heard. They rejoice. For a moment, he is filled with pride in himself, but it fades just as quickly as it appeared. Now, he has to deliver on his promise. Anything less, and all will be lost.
　

Spoiler: A letter, sealed with the image of a dragon's head, arrives to your court.

To whom it may concern,

134 years ago, the Dragons of the Vazrkših have been missing. No trace was left in our lands, and now we call upon all of the nations of Sorras to assist us as we continue our search for any clues regarding the whereabouts of our divine benefactors.
A representative of our realm and member of our priesthood should arrive at your court shortly following this message. We ask that you welcome them in your realm as one of your own. If you believe to have any information regarding these beings, do not hesitate to inform them at once.

Additionally, any who provide useful information regarding our search will be awarded with a hoard of treasures from our realm, as well as our eternal debt to you and yours for your service to our cause.

- Commander Xakvān of the Dragonguard

 

[SKELII]

THE GREAT COUNCIL OF VASARRAJBMI​

- Bagārnidūbmi, Capital of the Vazrkših​

Arraim Bagār (Arra of Bagar)​

The clanging of steel heralds the approach of a guard unit of the Dragonborns, echoing loudly off the empty stone walls of the main hall in Bagar's palace. Four soldiers, spears and shields in hand marching aside a mkarim; a dragon priest. At the end of the hall stands the Mšaxik Mūkadimdrajhaim - the Commander of the Dragonguard, military-dictator of the realm. Ever since his speech before the people of Bagārnidūbmi, this title had taken a new meaning; no longer was it a position with a seized authority borne of necessity and enforced by threats and fear. It was a promise, held under the delicate and piercing watch of the people and the powers that be. Under his visored helmet, he wore a look of uncertainty on his face that had plagued him every day since. He is Xakvān, fearless leader of the Dragonguard, Protector of the Realm. But what is a Dragonguard with no dragons? And is he truly protecting his realm by ruling it with an iron first? What right does he have to force the nation to remain united - to preserve an order that no longer exists - to usurp the Mūkadjim Mkarim?

"Mivrāim Mšaxik," says the priest, bowing his head as a show of respect. He is dressed in full red robes and draconic regalia. From his ears hang twin crescent earrings, curved like dragon claws. His hair is tightly braided into locs and tied behind him, his long beard groomed perfectly without a hair out of place. Xakvān examines this all closely from behind the veil of his helmet's faceguard before he responds. His position demands that he never admits it openly, but he does not trust the nation's priests. He has always found something distinctly off about the majority of them. Such was true of the man before him; He carries himself with a confident demeanor, his seemingly engineered look of wisened age hiding unknowable intentions behind his dark eyes.

"I am Šivasim Šakadbmihnak, teacher of the Way. I come bearing grave news, Commander. I have contacted every priest from here to the Zavihai. They have heard nothing on the whereabouts of our dragons."

Xakvān sighs.

"And what of our brothers in faith abroad? Any news from them?"

"Nothing," the priest replies flatly. "Draconid creatures, but not even any trace of any true mirāzj*."
*mirāzj; poetic honourific for dragons.

Xakvān takes a deep breath. He knows intuitively that he is making important progress and doing only what he can, but still he cannot shake the feeling that he is only being met with failure after failure after failure.

"If I may, I have a suggestion," the priest continues. "If clearly the answers we seek cannot be found elsewhere, perhaps it is time to look inward."

"Now is not the time for a sermon, priest," the commander interjects. "I need to come up with a new plan. If there is nothing else, you are dismissed."

"You misunderstand. I do not mean to suggest looking within ourselves - I mean within the Vazrkših."

"Within the Vazrkših?!" Xakvān's voice carries palpable confusion and frustration. "Do you mean to suggest that we may have simply overlooked our divine teachers for the past 2 centuries? What do you suggest then, priest - that we summit the Eastern Shield Mountains again in case we missed them the first time? Shall we dredge the Šakadi Sea in case they've gone aquatic? Perhaps I should send my Dragonborns to aimlessly wander the desert until they just happen across them somewhere in the dunes. Is that what you mean to tell me, priest? In all of your knowledge ascertained from studying the dragons' writings this is what you come up with? Check again?"

The priest, clearly embarrassed, bows his head and waits for a moment after Xakvān stops his tirade to respond. It is only then that the commander realizes that he's perhaps come down on the priest a little too harshly.

"Apologies, Commander. I did not mean to insult your previous efforts - I should have been clearer. What I mean to offer is that perhaps we have missed a clue somewhere we would not expect. I was intending to suggest that we call a council of the priesthood and the realm's scholars and diviners in Vasarrajbmi, that we might assemble everything we do know and through this find a clearer path forward."

Now it is Xakvān who is embarrassed. Such an outburst is incredibly unbecoming of someone in his position. Clearly, the stress of the past few weeks has been getting to him more than he realizes.

"It is alright, Šivasim. I should not have reacted in that way. I am only disappointed that our shared efforts have yet to bear anything to show for it. In myself and my Dragonguard most of all. Your suggestion is wise - I will arrange to have the notices sent at once. If there is anything that you or your colleagues need, the Dragonguard and all our resources are at your immediate disposal."

"My thanks and forgiveness to you, Commander." The priest bows his head respectfully, and leaves.

---

- Vasarrajbmi, City of Temples​

Arraim Mrāth (Arra of Merathis)​

The greatest minds of the Vazrkših wasted no time in gathering at Vasarrajbmi. Gathered in the courtyard that once housed the dragon Merathis, their meeting lasts three full days before they come to any conclusions and are ready to report their findings. By the time Commander Xakvān arrives, the yard is already scattered with books and sitting rugs. He is flanked by two of his fellow Dragonguards - Aršābxās, the governor of the Xinših region, and Tatrunowaka, the governor of the Hanad-Din region. They have come in their uniform dark armour, but unarmed and without their helmets - a rare thing for any member of the Dragonguard. A blood-red shoulder cape differentiates Xakvān from his companions. The priests and scholars stare as they pass. Many of them are the Dragonguards most vocal critics. Others ardent supporters.
The trio is stopped by one of the many great names that has been at this holy place for nearly 3 days straight; Mūkanšūij Idinrabdanhnak, a famed poet and philospher. He salutes the Commander as he approaches.

"Mivrāim Mšaxik, we have found something. Come."

He leads the Commander to a small table, where three men are scrawling something on a map of the Vazrkših.

"Ididrajki, Datvasma, Xvardatki - the Commander of the Dragonguard."

The men stand, most of them seeming to go slightly pale at the sight of three Dragonguards who arrived mostly unnanounced.

"Show me," Xakvān demands flatly.

Mūkanšūij unfurls a scroll that seems incredibly old. The writing on it is even in the classical style - intelligible, but with many stylistic features that more closely resembles the version of the Shakadi language spoken before the arrival of the Dragons. It had to be at least three centuries old.

"The story of Bagar's Arrival and the first days of the Age of Dragons," Mūkanšūij explains as he quickly reads over the text, "Written by a scholar by the name of Aršājbxās who was there to witness it. A priceless document provided to us by the grace of a priest from Samaksei. Here, look."

Mūkanšūij points to a section of the text. '...turned on his kin, slaying three of his own - the martyred Sahan, Javad, and Siamak. For this greatest of treasons, Bagar met Rakan with tooth and claw. They battled in the skies above the city of Bagar's Landing, an epic meeting of foes that is beyond desciption. Bagar, against all odds, defeated the great dragon Rakan, who fled to the Eastern Shield Mountains where he remains.

The scholar grins at Xakvān, whose eyes are wide at the claim made on the document. The story of Rakan's Heresy was a familiar one to any in the Vazrkših. Rakan was the brother of Bagar, who believed that it was the role of the Dragons to dominate the races of the world - a belief in direct opposition to Bagar's, who believed that the Dragons should enlighten the world and better its inhabitants, not turn them into slaves. His heresy had him outcast, but he rebelled and killed three of his kin. The story that everyone had all been told for as long as anyone could remember was that Rakan then attempted to assert his dominion over the city of Bagārnidūbmi, leading to a great battle with Bagar and ending with Rakan being killed and his remains returned to the dragon dens in the peaks of the Eastern Shield Mountains. Instead, according to this text, Rakan remains somewhere in the mountains just some short distance from the very heart of the entire nation.

"This can't be right," Xakvān says dismissively. "If Rakan still lived, he surely would have made his move by now - if not after his wounds healed then certainly after every other dragon vanished. And even then, there have been several expeditions into the Eastern Shield Mountains that have found no trace of dragon activity for the last two centuries and we certainly could not have overlooked a dragon that is 150 meters in length."

"Exactly what I said," Mūkanšūij says with a smirk, "But then we found more. As you know, ever since the dragons have vanished there has been a growing problem with the Vsārikj Rakānim - the heretical sect that follows Bagar's imperialistic philosophy. Furthermore, most of the sect's members have been known to reject society and live in isolated communities, typically out in the mesas or the deep desert. But, according to this letter that was seized at one such hideout-" He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket, which is covered front and back in quickly-scrawled writing. "-There is one of these communities located somewhere near the Eastern Shield Mountains - apparently not far from Drajhazakrbmi. So I had more of these communiques collected. This community is mentioned over 30 times. 11 of those times, it is named specifically as "Dax Rakanim." Rakan's Tomb."

Rakan's Tomb. The very words send chills through Xakvān's body. He opens the note, and confirms the words as they are written with his own eyes.

"So," Aršābxās chimes in, "Rakan is dead, then?" He leans in to read the note in Xakvān's hands.

"It seems to be a point of contention within the Vsārikj Rakānim's ranks. From what I gather, they can at least agree that Rakan is there, but they haven't been able to speak with him."

Tatrunowaka scoffs.

"Even when faced with his own doom, the Black Heretic can't be bothered to even speak to a human."

"Whether or not he is alive," Mūkanšūij says, kneeling at the small table before them, "They are attempting to excavate the cave that Rakan, or at least his body, is trapped in. And they're making progress. Fast."

He points towards a region of the map where there are many notes and annotations, and a big circle in the area between the cities of Drajhazakrbmi and Tambdan.

"The Vsārikj Rakānim are somewhere around here. If Rakan is alive and they manage to break him out..."

"It will not happen," Xakvān interrupts, studying the map intensely. "I will gather my Dragonborns and march for this festering pit of heretics at once."

The Commander turns to look at Mūkanšūij.

"The Mūkadimdrajha - no, the whole Vazrkših owes you greatly, Scholar. I will not forget this. Should you ever need the assistance of the Dragonguard, do not hesitate to meet me in Bagārnidūbmi."

Mūkanšūij smiles.

"No need, Commander. All I ask is that you remain true to those promises you made to us - that you find the Dragons, or whatever became of them. It is you that the Vazrkših should thank."

There is a moment of pause between them, and then Mūkanšūij steps away. In that moment, Xakvān is reminded of one of the great dragon Merathis' many prophecies; A black shroud extends over the Sacred Land. The dark comes from each direction, from below the sea and from behind the clouds. It stirs from beneath the sand. Its ancient words seep into the minds of the people and sow discord and fear. A war unknown must be fought, and won, or the shadows shall stretch until there is only darkness over the whole of Sorras.