Prologue:
Stories are like bones, they remain even after their subject has rotted away, they jutt out in memory and utterance, they sit bleaching in the hot sun and by their presence we remember. Of course, the stories my people like to recount tend to be for more immediate things, the unusually generous harvest from the gift, the kinsman that got back from the front with only the unseen scars, the nights where screams didn’t echo out from the badlands.
Those are the stories of my world, but the preachers like to remind us that there was a time when things were different. They tell these tales on especially bright days, at dawn sermons when the littl’uns need distraction, the old world is a dangerous topic afterall, nostalgia for something better can drive you mad or get you killed. But dangerous or not, the old world’s bones linger in our memory.
The tale goes something like this, long ago, when the world was a newborn blossom in the immortals garden, The Immortal sent his angels to Sorras tasked with establishing a realm that would please its eternal sight. These first beings cultivated a realm of verdant beauty, high plains of green and gold, rivers and lakes of crystalline hue and vast cities of ivory and gilt. But a realm needs to be peopled and so the Nephilim were created.
The Nephilim were half of this world and half of the immortals, for only something tied to Sorras could ever truly inhabit it. in time the Nephilim intermingled and generation after generation passed, eventually the divine was diluted and the mortal came to the fore. And so a new race, mankind, was born and with its Nephilim protectors to guide it, we prospered for millennia.
We were the envy of the known world, a glittering realm without want or strife, our harvests and crafts sought after and traded in cities across the face of Sorras. Our kings were the children of the immortal, long lived and wise, names such as Methusaleh, Tanuk and Zurah echoing in glory across the span of eternity. We were a people blessed upon high and our covenant with the immortal was unbroken.
We were a people of peace, we lived in harmony with the Sindrasiil and the men of the 13 realms and though we struck down with fierce anger those who threatened our lands, war was never worshipped. But all good things eventually fade, a cancerous rot at the edge of the world beginning to spread, Salroth the fallen angel, the hated enemy of the immortal, he gazed out at his father’s creation and sought to usurp it.
They spilled out of the shadowlands, infernal armies that burned across the ancient north, thus came the apocalypse. The realms of the Arkians and the empire burned and the flames soon licked at our borders. King Juhuram and the 900 led our people into battle, the sons of god and their children against the slavering maw of hell itself. We fought them with the ferocity of lions, decades of heroism and sacrifice. Alas all falls to dust in the end.
Our lands burned, weakened by the long war we begged our neighbours for aid, no answer came. Doomed we resigned ourselves to one final stand, at the battle of the rock we resolved to spit in the eyes of the enemy. Then came the fall, as the last Nephilim was slain the Immortal lashed out in rage at the demons who had so maimed his creation, legions of angelic might sweeping across the battlefield.
Juhuram and the 900 were borne away, taken up to the heavens to be at their fathers side, the remaining mortals were left alone in a broken world. The gilded realms were gone, immolated in their death pyres. Our cities were broken shells of blackened masonry, fields and plains sundered to ash and our sky clogged with smoke. But our suffering was still to grow, Salroth was weakened but far from dead, in a final act of spite Salroth cursed our lands with corruption and decay.
Only the lands surrounding the rock remained immune, these places were too suffused with the Immortal’s divine presence. Everything outside of this remnant was doomed to become an unending expanse of Ashland or the bitter frosts of the northern tundra. The survivors of the apocalypse established a ring of cities around the rock, in time we came to know the remaining plains and farmland as “the gift” and we swore to defend the remains of our forefathers realm.
New Covenant was born, the fortress cities of Tyros, Enoch, Gethsemna and Darkhaven all following. We swore a new covenant, to defend what remained. The old world was dead, we had survived the apocalypse and the death of our makers but at terrible cost. Three centuries have passed and we still hold the line.
Stories are like bones, they remain even after their subject has rotted away, they jutt out in memory and utterance, they sit bleaching in the hot sun and by their presence we remember. Of course, the stories my people like to recount tend to be for more immediate things, the unusually generous harvest from the gift, the kinsman that got back from the front with only the unseen scars, the nights where screams didn’t echo out from the badlands.
Those are the stories of my world, but the preachers like to remind us that there was a time when things were different. They tell these tales on especially bright days, at dawn sermons when the littl’uns need distraction, the old world is a dangerous topic afterall, nostalgia for something better can drive you mad or get you killed. But dangerous or not, the old world’s bones linger in our memory.
The tale goes something like this, long ago, when the world was a newborn blossom in the immortals garden, The Immortal sent his angels to Sorras tasked with establishing a realm that would please its eternal sight. These first beings cultivated a realm of verdant beauty, high plains of green and gold, rivers and lakes of crystalline hue and vast cities of ivory and gilt. But a realm needs to be peopled and so the Nephilim were created.
The Nephilim were half of this world and half of the immortals, for only something tied to Sorras could ever truly inhabit it. in time the Nephilim intermingled and generation after generation passed, eventually the divine was diluted and the mortal came to the fore. And so a new race, mankind, was born and with its Nephilim protectors to guide it, we prospered for millennia.
We were the envy of the known world, a glittering realm without want or strife, our harvests and crafts sought after and traded in cities across the face of Sorras. Our kings were the children of the immortal, long lived and wise, names such as Methusaleh, Tanuk and Zurah echoing in glory across the span of eternity. We were a people blessed upon high and our covenant with the immortal was unbroken.
We were a people of peace, we lived in harmony with the Sindrasiil and the men of the 13 realms and though we struck down with fierce anger those who threatened our lands, war was never worshipped. But all good things eventually fade, a cancerous rot at the edge of the world beginning to spread, Salroth the fallen angel, the hated enemy of the immortal, he gazed out at his father’s creation and sought to usurp it.
They spilled out of the shadowlands, infernal armies that burned across the ancient north, thus came the apocalypse. The realms of the Arkians and the empire burned and the flames soon licked at our borders. King Juhuram and the 900 led our people into battle, the sons of god and their children against the slavering maw of hell itself. We fought them with the ferocity of lions, decades of heroism and sacrifice. Alas all falls to dust in the end.
Our lands burned, weakened by the long war we begged our neighbours for aid, no answer came. Doomed we resigned ourselves to one final stand, at the battle of the rock we resolved to spit in the eyes of the enemy. Then came the fall, as the last Nephilim was slain the Immortal lashed out in rage at the demons who had so maimed his creation, legions of angelic might sweeping across the battlefield.
Juhuram and the 900 were borne away, taken up to the heavens to be at their fathers side, the remaining mortals were left alone in a broken world. The gilded realms were gone, immolated in their death pyres. Our cities were broken shells of blackened masonry, fields and plains sundered to ash and our sky clogged with smoke. But our suffering was still to grow, Salroth was weakened but far from dead, in a final act of spite Salroth cursed our lands with corruption and decay.
Only the lands surrounding the rock remained immune, these places were too suffused with the Immortal’s divine presence. Everything outside of this remnant was doomed to become an unending expanse of Ashland or the bitter frosts of the northern tundra. The survivors of the apocalypse established a ring of cities around the rock, in time we came to know the remaining plains and farmland as “the gift” and we swore to defend the remains of our forefathers realm.
New Covenant was born, the fortress cities of Tyros, Enoch, Gethsemna and Darkhaven all following. We swore a new covenant, to defend what remained. The old world was dead, we had survived the apocalypse and the death of our makers but at terrible cost. Three centuries have passed and we still hold the line.
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