godsfall Prologue

[spyrosbaldr]

---

Godsfall: New Gods on the Block

Prologue: Blood From A Stone

---

🗺️		The Wild, Brenus
📅		12:00 AM, 24th Etan 98 YGF, Feastday
🎵		Salem's Secret

South of the Crimson Hills lay the vast Wild, a shrouded jungle full of mystery even before the Godswar.

So mysterious was it that high elven scholars plumbed its depth for knowledge and power. They found it in the form of a massive stone archway - made entirely of a single piece of strange rock.

Every single scholar who entered this archway found themselves lost for days, and came back... different. This was the history of Zloln's clan of elves that a young Ralikanthae Sythaeryn belonged to. A history he well knew.

A history he repeated.

The Archstone flared to life, ancient glyphs and symbols burning a bright silver, spitting out the ghostly pale elf in a plume of pink and purple smoke. The smoke seeped and oozed into the moonlit canopy surrounding him.

Collapsing onto all fours, Ralikanthae's hands clenched dirt in their desperate grasps. He felt sick. Bile rose up in his throat and he retched terribly, except nothing came up. Lifting his head some, peering through ivory bangs, he found himself struggling to discern his surroundings.

All he saw was the strange smoke, already dissipating. Images of silver runes burned in his vision still and it made his already swimmy head downright dizzying. The elf stood woozily, but went forward, stumbling, tumbling back to the ground.

His breathing intensified as he realized what stood imposingly before him: the Archstone.

 

"N-No!!" he choked out, shaking his head violently. Ralikanthae scrambled backward, scuttling away from the Archstone in terror until he hit a rock. Hard.

The pain was enough to knock some semblance of sense back into him. He shivered still, eyes closed shut and arms hugging his knees tightly; he began gathering himself. The pain helped to act as a focus, anchoring him to the moment. Soon, his breathing became even.

Tentatively, he lifted his head and stares up at the Archstone; there was a mixture of dread and confusion that flooded through him. Vague, hazy memories hung teasingly out of reach of his recollection.

"What is happening?!" he murmured aloud, taking a deep, steadying breath and then rose to stand. Pale gaze swiveling all around him, the elf realized that the world was somehow different. Something was changing.

"Ralikanthae." At the sound of his own name, the elf's eyes widened and he began spinning around to locate the speaker. Or, was it speakers? Almost two distinct voices overlaid atop each other - a deep, reverberating one and a soft, chilling one.

There was no one else around. Tingles shot down his spine. On edge, the elf's gaze continued to roam in vain.

"Run, neophyte."

The hairs upon his neck stood on end; Ralikanthae instinctively snapped his gaze over to stare at the Archstone and its continual spewing of ominous mists.

"Run now."

The voice insisted that he run. But, why? Ralikanthae did not understand what was happening to him in the moment; his mind raced with all manner of outlandish possibilities. A sudden rush of air exploded out of the Archstone, flinging rocks and twigs about. The elf covered his face and arms to protect himself from flying debris.

Wincing from the pain, Ralikanthae slowly lowered his arms to peer at the archway of the relic and noticed something trying to escape from it - a wispy, nearly transparent object wiggled out from the mist. Grasped at the air, searching.

"Run if you want to save your people," the voice urged him once more. It evoked a deep, powerful sentiment within him which lent strength to his limbs and steeled his courage. Ralikanthae inhaled sharply and began to run as fast as he possibly could away from the Archstone.

His legs felt like leaden weights, bogging him down; not even his limbs responded rightfully and Ralikanthae stumbled again, nearly falling to the ground.

"Help me! You must!" he pleaded to the voice.

 

"I cannot control the gate," the voice responded. The object was joined by a second, and then a third, of itself. A mass of wriggling tentacle-like appendages found the edges of the Archstone, and three more rushed out to grasp the opposite side. A translucent bubble, all pink and purple reflections of the mist still spilling into the forest, pulled itself out from the portal.

The elf caught himself upon a nearby tree trunk and glanced over his shoulder at the horror which was emerging from the belching portal's mists. A wave of fear rolled over him at the sight of the tentacled monstrosity.

"It hungers."

The bubble of pink and purple squirmed out of the Archstone, its appendages in tow. It hovered gently above the dirt path, its tentacles lilting. The lurid colors of this massive terror were captivating; at once both mysterious and deadly. Despite that immediate knowledge, Ralikanthae found himself incapable of moving. The tentacled thing took advantage of the elf's hesitation, coiling up and launching itself at him.

Overwhelmed by fear, Ralikanthae sluggishly tried to defend himself against the creature's lunging tentacles as they coiled around him. His breathing became erratic as survival instincts took over, thrashing his limbs and attempting to tear himself free from the creature's ensnaring tendrils.

Something dark and horrible rose to the surface of the elf's demeanor as he shed his inhibition - this was a fight for his life! The grip of fear fled from him; he succumbed to wrath now.

"Enough of this!" he roared as his pale features began warping into the grotesque and monstrous. His pupils dilated to resemble hungry obsidian voids. The elf's teeth all grew into inch-long spikes, easily capable of ripping flesh apart. Even Ralikanthae's fingernails became awful claws that could rend meat and bone.

This was his true self, a macabre display in all its horror.

"I am... nothing's prey!" he growled aloud in a defiant, bestial voice. The creature reared back two of its limbs, striking at the pale elf with immense force. The first sailed past Ralikanthae's head and into the tree next to him. With surprising quickness, the elf chomped down upon the fleshy tendril in retaliation. The taste was... strange. Like nothing Ralikanthae had ever tasted before.

And moreover, it bled.

But there was little time to dwell on that. The second tentacle battered Ralikanthae's form, crashing into his shoulder and knocking him into the brush. The creature made a sound outside of the audible range that could still be felt - a low-end roar that rippled the air around it, tingling with electricity.

As the pale elf got knocked aside, some kind of rippling burst radiated from his feet - sending him further and further into the woods away from the massive jellyfish creature. The stolen blood carried a spark of something that had been gone from Khalgun for a long time - magic.
 

Weightless. The sensation of feeling utterly without control of one's own body.

Ralikanthae soared through the air, the powerful strike from the creature sending him far away; a thankful gap of distance was now between the elf and monster. Landing upon his feet somehow, skidding backward before coming to a rest, he clutched at his injured arm. Adrenaline still coursed through him, but he was in control now.

His own bestial features, claws and fangs, receded; he flickered his gaze towards the woods. Safety.

"When the voices in your head make sense..." he muttered dryly. He stole one last glance at the interdimensional entity before he dashed in the direction of the thick foliage. The elf's movements were graceful strides and leaps, more akin to the bounding of a running stag than that belonging to a clumsy bipedal.

As Ralikanthae bolted deeper and deeper into woods, the horrid pink and purple creature vanished from sight. As though it had never been there. The mist cloyed and roiled in the distance behind the pale elf, and no matter how far he ran he could see it behind him. Faint, but it was there.

[spyrosbaldr]

---

Godsfall: New Gods on the Block

Prologue: A Trail of Stars

---

🗺️		The Wild, Brenus
📅		3:00 AM, 24th Etan 98 YGF, Feastday
🎵		Even In Death

Eventually, Ralikanthae found himself deep in the heart of The Wild, far from the birthtrees of his people.

 

The woods here smelled of dampness and lavender and sandalwood. Devoid of sound. A perfect spot to breathe for a moment. The pale elf stopped dead in his tracks, hunching over to clamp both hands upon his knees and suck in air greedily. The woods here were surprisingly pleasant. He perspired fiercely from his run, and must recover from his encounter with that monstrosity.

"I almost lost you, Ralikanthae," the double-voice chided. Soothing. Rumbling. "You must take greater care."

Was he losing his mind? The voices sounded nearly concerned for his well being. The thought of that possibility frightened him deeply. He briefly wondered if he should even respond to the voice further, but he needed answers.

"I... remember traveling to the Archstone, except everything after that is lost to me," he admitted to the voice, one eyebrow quirking upwards. He rose to a standing position, quickly removing his carried bag and threw it to the ground, then stripped out of his cloak. Using the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow. Reaching up, he swept his long ivory locks back, twisting them into a bun before fishing a silvery strip of ribbon from his pocket, using it to tie the hair up.

"Yes child," the voice spoke in its strange two-tone. "We met soon after you came through that portal. You wandered into the Astral Plane, neophyte - my domain."

The voice called the Astral Plane home. The revelation stunned the elf, forcing him to take a step backward. Ralikanthae tried to recall his moments leading up to the Archstone and after, but his mind was only a blank mess.

"Who are you!? What are you?!" he demanded, scanning around the quiet woods here.

"Reveal yourself; enough hiding!" He flexed his fingers, ready to defend himself from an unseen attacker if he must.

There was no motion in the woods around Ralikanthae. Not a whisper of wind, not a scuttle of creatures. It was eerily silent. And yet...

"Your people are cursed," the voice continued, ignoring his questions and demands. "They angered the wrong sort, long ago, and you bear their burden. You begged me for a cure."

Blinking several times, he realized that there was a quiescence within the woods. A faint frown creased his lips before the voice continued again. What the voice said was all true - he did seek a panacea to the Curse which afflicted all of his people. Ralikanthae nearly let slip a snide remark, opening his mouth to do so, but swallowed his words. It was better not to agitate an interdimensional being who offered assistance. That begged the question: at what cost?
 

"I am here and I am not here, neophyte. If you want to see me again, you need only close your eyes."

"Close my... eyes?" he asked with no small amount of skepticism. The elf smirked to himself as he shook his head slightly. Given everything that had been happening to him recently, closing his eyes to see the owner of the voice seemed rather tame.

"I shall play along," he continued, taking a deep breath. He released his frustrations and anxiety among many other turbulent emotions. Suddenly, he clenched his eyelids shut with surprising anticipation.

 

Something inside his mind opened - almost like another set of eyes entirely. Around him was the same array of branches and bushes, the high boughs of trees and the full moon - brighter than he'd ever seen - in the night sky. The same, save for the shimmery pink and purple glow emanating from every living thing around him.

Was this an illusion? Not only was the world now cast in a brilliance he'd never known, but it was breathtakingly beautiful. Shimmering colors and glows made up the landscape, painting his surroundings in a starry pallor that captivated the elf's attention. For several seconds, he became lost to it all.

That is, until he noticed the elven woman whose gaze held stellar cosmoses within them.

Her presence was commanding. An indigo waterfall of hair cascaded from her crown to her navel; stars collapsed and reformed in the empty sockets of her eyes.

"Neophyte Ralikanthae Sythaeryn," she said, her voice undulating between those two tones.

"I am Karelia Vhorta. The domain before you - this is the Astral Plane. It is here and not here, intertwined and yet sovereign. You merely peer into its depths while your body remains in the Realm Material."

The Astral Plane - a realm parallel to the Material Plane. Something Ralikanthae had only considered circumstantial at best, but now knew was the truth. This was no mere illusion.

 

 

The astral being pointed northwest, drawing Ralikanthae's gaze in that direction, and a bead of bright, glowing light formed upon her digit. Her next words hit him hard.

"You and I have a deal, neophyte. You desire to remove the curse of your people, and I desire freedom from my prison. You desire knowledge, and I desire a student. Find my beacon, neophyte. Begin your path." As she spoke, the bead coalesced into a ray, shooting through and past the trees. It disappeared into the wood, leaving a trail of stardust in its wake.

They had an agreement in place. The elf found this new set of circumstances to be overwhelmingly positive. It left him with multitudes of questions, many of which must remain unanswered for now.

"I... am sorry I doubted you," he admitted, a frown forming as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. The pale elf shed his skepticism and jadedness in favor of excitement and wonder; there was little in this world which brought him pleasure or joy anymore. This was beyond an exception. Unwilling to open his eyes just yet for fear of losing sight of Karelia and the path, Ralikanthae asked another question.

"I will do as you say, Karelia, but I need to know: how could I possibly be able to help free you from prison?" he asked in a candid tone, tilting his head to the side.

"There is no reason for sorrow, neophyte. You live, and that is what is relevant." She dropped her outstretched arm, and her form shimmered slightly. Flickering.

"My prison is not a place. It is a cruel joke, a cosmic irony. Find my beacon, Ralikanthae, and more will be revealed to you."

No sooner than she finished talking does her form wink out, dissipating into a cloud of vapor.

Ralikanthae opened his eyes, and the purple and pink aura about the silent Wild too vanished. Just a creepy and dark wood again. He closed his eyes, and it returned. As did the trail of stardust. With a sense of overwhelming purpose, he pushed into the woods, following Karelia's trail.

 

[spyrosbaldr]

---

Godsfall: New Gods on the Block

Prologue: From An Age Before

---

🗺️		Mt. Li-Gun, Wessle
📅		9:00 AM, 24th Etan 98 YGF, Feastday
🎵		Sanctuary

In the southern region of Wessle, less than a day's trip north of the Coalspine, sat a craggy and elderly sort of pile of large rocks called Mt. Li-Gun.

And tucked into this pile of rocks, there was a cavern where an old man stared pitifully into a pool of water. Beside him were all his belongings: a horseless cart; a haversack, made from the hide of a creature that no longer walks Khalgun; a large hammer made for the old followers of Pelios, somehow kept away from Kadar's Order of the Seeker.

The sun had yet to crest noon, but Mamlemin had lit a lantern and hung it nearby anyway. Couldn't rely on the sun all day.

The man knelt by the pool, his shoulders hunched with weariness. His reflection in the water, dimly lit by the faint light of the lantern, was distorted by the ripples of the wind rushing inside the cavern. Strangely, the volutes of dark fog emanating from his eyes did not appear to be disturbed by the wind, dancing with a mind of their own.

His teeth were clenched, his arms trembling, his nails deeply sunk into his palms. Inside the pool, a pair of white irises reflected back into Mamlemin's face. A true mirror of his own - even the swirls of black, cloudy vapor surrounding them.

"What is happening?!" he yelled with an outcry of rage, slamming his fist onto the ground. As he did so, a grayish pebble he knocked over turns instantly dark, so dark that all light seemed to avoid its contour. Yet, from this very darkness originated an ominous glow that illuminated the surroundings in a twenty-foot radius. Now that his figure was well lit by the magical pebble, Mamlemin Ono scrutinized every angle of his withered face. Before long, the ripples of falling tears blurred Mamlemin's reflection.

After a few minutes of motionless silence, save for the occasional dripping sound onto the water's surface, Mamlemin crawled away from the pool and put his back against the cavern's wall. Sitting a scribe position, he closed his eyes and put his hands flat on his knees. He took one long breath. Another one. Another one...

"Calm yourself. Breathe. Focus on your inner balance. Focus on your inner flame. Focus," he whispered faintly to himself. After twenty minutes of intense meditation, Mamlemin opened his eyes. His pale blue human eyes, free of all dark fog.

Only silence answered Mamlemin, silence being a relative term - drips from further inside the cavern, the flutter of some winged creature, the subtle movement of the cave settling - these sounds answered the old man.

As the minutes passed, the drops could be counted in steady intervals. Six or seven passed without event. Then eight.

On the ninth drip, an unsettling noise arose from the mouth of the cave: the sound of hoofbeats. Wooden cartwheels on hard packed dirt. Terrified, angry voices. Not close, but close enough to be heard on the wind.

Mamlemin turned his head towards the mouth of the cave, towards the approaching voices of the mob, and sighed.

"So they came back..."

Wearily, the old man stood and glanced at his possessions scattered across the cave. His eyes barely rested for a second on the cart. It was full of clothes, kitchen utensils, books... nothing that could not be replaced. From the haversack, resting on various bare necessities, protruded an antique though well-maintained chain mail.

The man slowly walked towards the armor, and delicately ran his right hand on the iron links, a gentle, rehearsed caress. There would be no leaving this behind. He picked up his backpack and with one swift motion put it on.

The voices were getting closer.

Mamlemin looked to the left, towards the mouth of the cavern. With the midday sun bathing the mountain in its radiance, he squinted his eyes and analyzed the hard terrain that he would need to go through should he run that way. He then peered to the right, through the darkness of the unknown cavern, his irises growing large once more. Mamlemin picked up the little glowing rock by the pool and threw it in that direction, as far as he could. The magic pebble bounced a few times, as the tunnel went on, and on, and on...

The voices were getting louder.

Mamlemin closed his eyes, stroked his salt and pepper beard a few times, took a deep breath... Suddenly, his eyes opened towards the mouth of the cave.

"I will not run away. Not this time," he said to no one, voice resolute. With a new spring to his steps, Mamlemin grabbed his warhammer and shield, both marked with Pelios's crest. The shield, he swung across his back. The warhammer, he put alongside the cavern's mouth, out of view from the entrance.

Outside the cave, Mamlemin could see clouds of dust rising into the air. Torches. Pitchforks. Shovels. Pickaxes. Bodies and bodies and bodies of men and women and children, marching in a disorganized fashion up the path to his cavern.

"I will not fight!" he yelled, stepping out of the cavern. With the echo of his voice resonating throughout the Li-Gun mountains, a renewed serenity appeared on Mamlemin's face. An inviting expression of calm and peace.

His voice reverberated out and over the path, reaching almost the foot of the mountain before decaying to nothingness. The villagers seemed unmollified at best, and even angrier at worst.

"Liar! Deceiver!" They called, pumping their instruments as they did so. "An example must be made!"

Mamlemin scrutinized the faces in the crowd. Among the malevolent snarls and the fearful eyes, he noticed a few worried gazes - worried not for themselves, but for what might happen to the old man. Mamlemin inhaled deeply, before speaking in a low, and yet powerful, tone. His voice filled the air but left it undisturbed. His words delicately reached everyone's ears with perfect clarity and equal volume, no matter whether they stood five feet or twenty feet away from him:

"Liar... Deceiver... These are strong words... Words that should not be flung around wildly. Can anyone of you tell me one single time when I lied or deceived you?"

A short silence ensued, before, with a finger, Mamlemin singled out one an anxious middle-aged man from the crowd.

"Tell me Godrel, when your wife, Cehrih, past away three years ago from the yellow fever, was I not here? All these long nights by the fire? To listen to you, when everyone else was avoiding you like a pest-infested sow? Have I failed you in your time of dearest need? And have I ever asked for anything in return?"

Mamlemin's shaming digit then turned to a mother in her thirties, her sons by her side.

"And you Sirna, when your kid broke his legs in that horse accident, was I not here? To set the bones back in place? To stitch the gaping wound? To daily change his bandages and chase away the infection? And now, where is that boy? Where is Brolvag? By your side! Chasing me, his healer! On his own two legs! Have I ever asked for anything in return, for all these hours spent by your side?"

The old man's hand lowered once more by his side, as his gaze jumped from one shameful face to the other, their eyes lowering as he made contact, uncannily targeting the sparse faces in the crowds that are not filled with hate.

"Yes, it is true, I have never told you my story... for I never had to! For you accepted me, not for who I was in a long forgotten life... but for who I am! You saw the pain that assailed my soul, but you also saw my desire to be part of your community. You welcomed me among you, no questions asked, without a doubt in your minds.

In exchange for your kindness, I taught your kids to read and count. In exchange for your kindness, I took care of your aches, of body and mind. So tell me... When have I deceived you? When have I wronged any of you?"

A harsh murmur befell the mob of villagers. Some stopped their forward march toward Mamlemin, causing confusion among their numbers. Some cried out in the defense of the old man.

Some were not so appeased.

"Listen not to the words of the demon. Did you not see his eyes all black and afire, not two days ago?" There were whispers of dissent. A few of the torchbearers raised their flames and cry out. A man, bucktoothed with short, black hair and blue eyes, stepped out of the crowd. Anger written all over his face and clenched fists. Jern Happeck.

"He may have healed yer babies, but in selfish purpose! He wants them to eat when they're strong! Just like in the stories my gram told me before the blasted gods destroyed our world."

Big Billie spoke up in Mamlemin's defense.

"Those are just stories, Jern. Mamlemin's a harmless old sod, kind even."

"He's an evil bastard and I'll prove it to ya! What harmless old sod wears chainmail and carries a hammer?"

The old man's eyes, full of gratitude, turned to Big Billie. He lifted his right hand in a soothing gesture, inviting Big Billie to step back and leave the matter of Jern to him. The two men now faced each other, one with hate and fear imprinted on every wrinkle of his face, the other serene and patient.

"Jern, I understand your fears. I do not ask of you to welcome me back in Gardol, only that you leave me be. I will never harm any of you, nor anyone for that matter." Mamlemin bit his lower lip slightly, stroking his beard once, before giving a sigh and continuing.

"I indeed possess a hammer. A warhammer. A gift from a time long gone... I have not wielded it in ages and I do not intend to anymore... Take it," Mamlemin said, stepping aside to reveal the hammer resting against the cavern's mouth.

"If this will appease your mind, take it. I have no need for such a weapon anymore. I have kept it all these years for sentimental reasons... but if this is what is needed to sway your mind, and avoid bloodshed today, then it is a price I will gladly pay.

Jern Happeck, take it. This warhammer, relic of a troubled time, is yours."

[spyrosbaldr]

---

Godsfall: New Gods on the Block

Prologue: Bringing Down The Hammer

---

🗺️		Mt. Li-Gun, Wessle
📅		9:35 AM, 24th Etan 98 YGF, Feastday
🎵		Black

Jern took the proffered hammer, staring at it.

The silence that followed was broken by no one, as if the collective mob held its breath for whatever Jern decided to do.  His brow remained furrowed, white knuckling the long shaft of the hammer. Trembling. Jern couldn't bring himself to meet the eyes of Mamlemin. He began to shake, from his shoulders to his feet.

And then he lifted the hammer above his head, screaming. The mob became a mess of movement, some trying to stop Jern, others encouraging him.

As soon as Jern lunged at Mamlemin with his own warhammer, instinct kicked in and Mamlemin swung his shield from his back into a defensive position.

"I will not fight you, Jern Happeck!" the old man yelled. In his defensive reflex, Mamlemin accidentally knocked over a silver mirror, loosely hanging from a side pocket of his backpack. Too focused on the enraged villager, Mamlemin did not notice the mirror's fall as he continued his plea.

"I implore you to see reason!"

Upon this last supplication, the mirror crashed into the rocky ground of Mt. Li-Gun with a single clink, but did not shatter. It uncannily fell flat, without a single bounce. The midday sun struck its reflective surface with all its might, and the mirror shone brightly... more brightly, even, than it should for the attentive eye, which may also caught a barely perceptible glow surrounding Mamlemin's figure.

Big Willie reached to grab the hammer before Jern could bring it down, but he was just too far to grasp it. The mob struggled to contain itself - hands swatted away other hands, fists began flying.

And Jern? Jern brought the hammer down.

The light from the mirror reflected into his eyes, and he screamed as though in pain. He dropped the hammer, covering both of his eyes with his hands.

"AAAAHHH! I cannot see!" he wailed, stumbling around the mob, waving a free hand while holding his eyes. "I told ya he were nothin' but evil! I told ya I would prove it!"

Mamlemin sighed deeply at the heinous blacksmith's show and turned to the mob, gathered closer to him now, with a fatherly stern expression.

"This charade needs to end now. I seek no troubles, only to be left in peace. Many of you have come all the way to Mt. Li-Gun expecting to fight off a demon, or a monster. However, I can see in most of your eyes that who stands before you does not meet your expectations. I am the same Mamlemin you've known through all these years: the man who taught your kids, and bandaged your wounds.

Jern Happeck," he said, extending a hand towards the jester running around like a crazed man, not wasting a single glance for the fool's display, "will not relent in his attempts at turning you against me. I know I will not sway his mind. I can only hope that I have appeased yours... Please, return to Gardol. Give my last goodbyes to your children. Tell them I will miss them dearly..."

The slightest grin appeared on Mamlemin's face as he gave a melancholic look towards the Eastern horizon, before finishing.

"They are good kids, and I will cherish every single moment I spent teaching them."

Among the mob, a few still supported Jern. These people yelled and threw rocks, ineffectually striking the lip of the cavern above Mamlemin. Jern stumbled about, reeling and blinded. No one seemed to care enough about him to keep him straight.

The rest of the mob shared a look and prepared to quit the cavern's mouth, grabbing their harvesting tools and would-be weaponry. The old man's words seemed to have reached the sanest ears this day.

With a grateful nod to Big Willie, Mamlemin turned around to pick up his warhammer, ignoring the few rocks thrown by the small number of peasants still infuriated with him. His motion stopped for a moment and the old man's eyebrows raised with surprise when he noticed the silver mirror lying next to the hammer.

His eyes squinted as his gaze darted from the mirror to Jern, and back to the mirror. With a satisfied and discreet grin, he towed the mirror to its rightful place.

The rocks kept flying around the old man.

The mirror back to where it belonged, Mamlemin grabbed his hammer and fastened to his belt, the grin now gone leaving his usual stoic expression behind. His possessions once more with him, the old man slowly walked towards the cavern, without ever looking back.

The sounds of rocks striking the cavern's lips and inner walls slowly diminished to nothing, as did the shouts. Hours passed before the old man found a suitable spot in the cave to rest and get a sense of his bearings.

The cavern itself connected to a wide tunnel, filled with luminescent crystals. These crystals were soft in their light, providing just enough light to see the space immediately around them. Just looking at the array of crystals showed Mamlemin a path through the mountain.

Without the sun or the moon or the sky, it was impossible to know that a day had passed for Mamlemin inside Li-Gun's depths. After walking and walking, only to rest for a few hours before continuing on, the old man came upon an underground city: the old Vel Durum.

[spyrosbaldr]

---

Godsfall: New Gods on the Block

Prologue: Here Comes Down The Wall

---

🗺️		Flatrock, Wessle
📅		12:00 PM, 24th Etan 98 YGF, Feastday
🎵		Fertility of the Sea

The furthest south one could go marked the Coalspine, the last land divider before one reached the Worldstorm.

The Free Desert surrounding the Coalspine divided two disparate clans of orcs - Clan Flatrock to the east, and Clan Deathhammer to the West. On this day, Clan Deathhammer made another raid on a Flatrock village. Whether for resources, domination, or just plain aggression for aggression's sake, none on the field of battle knew.

The more agricultural of the two clans, Flatrock, was also losing. Overwhelmingly so - its undertrained ranks fell to the hammers and axes of Deathhammer by the dozens. Fires had overtaken most of the western walls while Flatrock's unarmed defenders fled for their lives.

Two young orcs tended to an elder who had fallen under a wall at the breaking point. A third young orc, male and of low birth, charged to stop the wall from crushing his three fellow clanmates. Onok had built walls and fences, mined from the thick chunks of coal from the Coalspine - but never before had he held a collapsing wall.

 

Onok Flatrock rushed forward, tossing his weapon aside and turning to brace the wall with his back, planting his legs into the soil below as the wall crushed his frame. Every movement sent waves of throbbing pain through his chest, legs, and back. It was exhausting and Onok started to feel sick, with seemingly nothing he could do about it.

"Ch'uz k'irci, ch'ah rsah nah veah bisatahn'ho ch'ah csan cseis In Orcish, "Move faster, I know not how long I can hold this."," he said through clenched teeth. He wanted to stop everything he was doing and treat the pain, to make it stop; in these fleeting moments, he realized he's trapped. Put into this place by the call of action and the cries of help as Clan Deathhammer raided upon them once again. Closing his eyes and steadying his breathing, he took a deep breath. And then another. It was his best attempt to regain his composure.

His head felt eerily light, everything seeming to spin around him in a blur of motion and his legs could barely continue to stand the weight that lay upon him. On any other day, he probably would've given his life to save his people, but not today. Today was a day of pushing the limits. Today was not a day to die, crushed under this wall like a spider under a boot. The more he thought about not wanting to die, the angrier he became at the predicament.

"Ch'uz vun'bicn hah!In Orcish, "Move dammit!"" he cursed to the wall, to his body and to the juveniles and elder under him. From a deep squatting position Onok slowly, and surely on shaky legs, began to stand. His back straightened as he stood, veins bulging across his body with every exertion. The once crushing weight now about as heavy as a felled log.

With a last push of effort, Onok heaved the wall into the air long enough for him to escape out from under its reach, sending a dust cloud up as it crashes. Onok huffed air, greeted with stunned looks of awe as he tried his best to not puke. His body felt like it was on fire, his muscles screaming at him, daring him to topple over.

"Lciti vah, nah tol ch'at ch'iticev ch'itt'suvrecah,In Orcish, "Steel yourselves, we push these invaders back."" was all Onok said as he grabbed his weapon.

The three orcs continued to stare at Onok in silence, mouths agape. Almost entirely forgotten was the battlefield, and the houses on fire, and the screams of terror from their fellow clanmates.

Almost.

"...YYYYAAAAAA!" cried the elder, scrambling to his feet and urging the younger two to their fallen weapons. "Nah ch'urci tenar ch'at vetihn!In Orcish, "We must save the village!""

They gathered their spears and swords, clanking them together. Behind this group of orcs, a blast of warhorns signaled incoming Deathhammer forces. Onok wiped sweat from his forehead.

"<< We must gather others. Let's move. >>" Onok and his group set out to find others, any who would listen and who could carry a weapon. Answering cries for help of those stuck inside their burning homes along the way.

"<< If we can form a barricade, a shieldwall at a cutthroat. Their numbers will mean nothing. >>" His heart raced with nervousness, anxious to get his plan underway.

Following Onok's directions, the three orcs hurried behind him as he entered the village. Home after home he saw set ablaze by arrows dipped in lit oil. The party of orcs wasted no time smashing down crumpled doors, rescuing the families trapped within.

A mother and her only son. An elder, widowed and childless. Three young orclings, barely out of their swaddles, and their parents. One of the chieftain's wives.

Each was given the choice to arm themselves or flee. Nearly all fled the village - just the chieftain's wife and the elder took up shield and spear and head to Onok's established shield wall.

Onok armed as many people that would follow him with spears, pitchforks, scythes, shields, swords and bows. Gathering enough forces, he told the strongest in their prime to form a shield wall, armed with anything sharp that could be used to cause damage. Behind them were the smaller of the bunch with swords or hand scythes, and behind them were any archers that he had left. Onok set himself just behind the middle of the shield wall, his greataxe hanging on his back and a javelin in each hand.

"<< We will fight for our home! Fight for our right to live! Fight for freedom! >>" Onok exclaimed before readying himself for what would come next.

 

 

Outside the village, another warhorn blared. The banner of Clan Deathhammer could be seen among rows and rows of armed orcs. Skin painted black with soot and ashes and the blood of the fallen. Their eponymous hammers resting in their hands.

 

Astride a destrier was the leader of this raid, a large female orc with a headdress constructed out of bones. She towered over every orc on her side of the field and every single fighter in Onok's spear wall.

The chorusing roar of boots and flags of the Deathhammer raiders showed in the distance. Onok's band of fighters began fidgeting in their places.

"<< Hold your ground, >>" was all the reassurance he gave them, the worried looks they might have had now fade as they nodded in turn and readied themselves. Onok stabbed the javelins into the soil beside him and walked out past the safety of his company. He held himself proudly, fists clenched at his sides as he met the gaze of the invaders' leader.

In all respects she was beautiful, a deadly air about her and the way she held command of her troops all roused the beast within him.

"<< In other circumstances I wouldn't mind to have taken you as a wife, >>" Onok said with no malice shown in his voice. "<< Your day has been won, you beat farmers and laborers with trained warriors. >>"

The orc chieftain removed her headdress as Onok approached. The first, and most immediate, thing to notice about her was the yellow, almost cat-like irises of her eyes.

The second was her demeanor. A mirthless, menacing smile - all teeth and tusks. She regarded Onok with the same attitude one might use for a fly or a flea, speaking in Orcish.

"<< But no more, no more lives to be slaughtered. What'll it take for you to leave? >>" Onok questioned the leader directly. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils, determined to not break eye contact with the mounted leader.

"<< YOU would have me as a wife? If only your spine matched your bravado, roundtusk. >>"

She dismounted the warhorse, another Deathhammer orc running up to gather its reins and lead it on. A path to the chieftain cleared immediately between her and Onok. Some of it was in reverence; some of it fear.

"<< You want me to leave you with your life, lowblood? Roundtusk? You will stand and fight me alone in Honored Combat. And if I don't break you in under a minute, I'll consider sparing your worthless village. >>"

Onok's steady heartbeat began to race in his chest as he faced down the female orc. Her words were like daggers with serrated edges and Onok tried his best to not show his true emotions. Instead he held a blank face as she approached, parting the seas of her men like a leader of true renown.

"<< I accept. What are your rules of engagement? Shall we settle this in armor? Fisticuffs? >>" he said, responding back in Orcish once she'd finished, ready to remove his scalemail and weapon from his body.

The chieftain of Clan Deathhammer sneered, pounded her chest, and then barked a laugh. The gathered Deathhammer orcs seemed to understand what this meant because they all scrambled. In a matter of seconds, the Deathhammers had a large, open circle painted on the field around Onok and the chieftain.

The circle looked to be some fifty feet in circumference. Nothing in between Onok and the chieftain except the thick tension in the air. She unhooked the straps to her hides and bones serving as her armor.

Waiting for her response he gave his last remark.

"<< Would you give me the honor of your name? >>" The words rolled off his tongue sharply. He felt something within - of which he wasn't sure - nevertheless he vowed to himself that he would win this trial. If not for himself, then for his clan; tired he was of the way the Deathhammer looked down upon them. Seeking now as his time to prove them wrong, if only to spite her words.

"<< I am called Razhagal, peasant. No weapons. No armor. No interference. No mercy. >>"

Clan Flatrock, behind Onok, looked on with a mixture of hope, despair, and resignation. As brave and as incredible his deeds had been, most of them seemed to have accepted that they were going to die today.

"<< Prepare yourself, roundtusk. >>"