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Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with the next chapter of this wonderful saga by Elgarion De’Kahli. It is entitled

The Second Era

The Age of the Warring Cities Begins…
On Moonandai, the 9th of Apru, the Month of the Farmer, the Life-Giving Season of Sprengh, in the Lingering Night A New Era Began
Background music is by Smartsound.

In the turbulent Second Era of New Britannia, the Warlords of all the kingdoms ravaged the lands, causing mayhem throughout the recently resettled world above their former cavernous homes. This age was a darkened time starved for a uniting strength; the Titans had yet to spread their blessings of love, courage and truth, and the peoples were lost without the mysterious guidance of The Oracle which, in time, would steer many to their elusive destinies. As the scales weighed heavily towards Chaos, it became a lost world–a world without Virtue, and it was the era in which The Obsidian Eye was born.

To what purpose the book stole into the meager farm boy’s hands, the young one did not know, or perhaps simply did not remember. One’s fate oft is written without the practicalities of reason. What was, is. What is, will be, and what will be, is foretold. Some say the boy stole the libram, but many theologians argue fate handed him this bounty, for no other choice was offered to him. One cannot deny their destiny. So by that right, the book was always his. This volume of small metallic pages contained the words of Sariah the Blind. The message bestowed clarity where there was confusion. The boy’s path was aligned to his true course. As he grew, so did his focus and resolve. With each passing year, the boy became the man, and the man became a scholar, a grand sorcerer, and then, Master to the Obsidian Cabal. He was to become, The Obsidian Eye.

In this time of utter turmoil, the world was ripe for conquest. The Warlords would never guess what would befall them. As they were distracted by their greed and territorial squabbles, the power of the Obsidian Eye thrived unabated. His reach stretched across the lands as dark sorcerers bowed into his service. His army was forming, and the world would soon know its conquerer and Master.

The Prophecy of the Obsidian Eye
The world is fallen; fallen into chaos.
Men reached up in anger and shattered the sky.
Its blackness falls to earth like a rain of dark glass;
The ordered customs and rows of society are shattered.
All men stumble
in the blinding light of a blood red dawn.
Sightless who will not see.
Deaf to the truth they will not hear.
Mewing and wailing of and for themselves.
They kill with discordant and untamed shouts
The melodic order of their better selves.
Yet from the Obsidians’ fall shall arise
Seen only by the ordered Eye
The blade which shall render order in their midst;
Silence the voices who screech outside the ordered tune;
Darken the eyes of unwelcome vision;
And bring one vision, one voice, one song
To a world reborn in perfect twilight.
Supreme and ordered once more in its flawlessness.
Of one thought and purpose born and died.
Until only the night remains.

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Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with another wonderful story from Elgarion De’Kahli. It is entitled

The First Era: The Age of Survival

Background music is by Smartsound

On Moonandai, the 2nd of Janus, the Month of Daedalus, the Chilling Season of Wentru, in the Waking Dawn
A New Era Began

As the tearing winds of the great storm lessened, a decade had passed before the choking ash had finally settled into a smothering blanket upon the once bountiful lands of New Britannia. The world was torn asunder. The fall of the moon shards forced the desperate survivors of the great Cataclysm to seek shelter, oft into the treacherous underworld beneath their former homes. In rushed refuge, most took nothing save their families and what meager belongings were gathered in frantic haste and which could be carried easily into these darkened mazes below. The fortunate brought sources of light, but even as those eventually expired, the torchbearers were left as helpless as the many who took no light into the blackness; ultimately, all were unprepared for what would become of them. Befuddled wizards, once powerful and adept in the ancient incantations of their forefathers, now spoke in stutters as they attempted to recite even a most novice of spells… light. When the spell singers took to the depths, they burdened themselves with tomes and spell books, most of which, in the coming years were simply cast away into the campfires for mere warmth as their runic inscribed pages became valueless with the waning magic in the world.

As the years slipped by, the survivors hid from the death above, yet countless refugees met the dealer’s scythe in other ways. Whether it be illness from the damp, despair of the darkness, or the horrors of the deep, many looked upon death’s embrace as a release from that detestable existence. So many societies formed from these times. Former enemies became companions as they worked together to survive, and hatred often ensued from former friends which now had reason to compete for resources. In some caverns, inspiring leaders emerged who rallied their underworlds to greatness and prosperity. Other communities languished, only surviving in the most meager sense, barely reaching what some have called The First Dawn or The Day of Life–when the ash clouds first parted and the nourishing light of the sun once again cast its warmth upon the dying lands.

In the following decades, some more hesitant than others, these underworld communities emerged to take in the light. They found their former world in ruin. The greatest of cities had crumbled under the Shard Fall, and most of the lands were unrecognizable. Handfuls of these under-dwellers remained beneath in the sheltering dark, finding the life in the caverns preferable to the ones of their surface dwelling forefathers. Most began to rebuild in the realms above. Settlements became villages which became towns… and towns, cities. Although nothing shone in comparison to the heavenly spires of stone from before The Fall, grand cities did come to evolve, and with them, would-be kings or warlords arose to power. For as the lands above healed, resources were still scarce. As the peoples spread their ambitious wings, their borders grew then eventually overlapped. It wasn’t long before these warlords took to arms to defend their claims.

Also of note during this age, it was commonly believed the Titans fled to New Britannia, taking shelter from a calamity which beset their home in another world. Albeit there are many rumors and beliefs as to the true origin of the Titans, this one dominant theory heralds an overwhelming realization: The Fall was not just of this world, but of many. As the moon shards fell upon the lands of New Britannia, other worlds also endured the horrors of their own apocalypse. Could this be true of the Titans? That they were mere survivors of another world’s end? Countless texts and authors have penned many stories of the worlds from beyond the Rift. What transpired upon each… only the Outlanders know of this. With the return of the Avatars, knowledge of the Falls of many worlds is now only just becoming known.

Within this age, as the last dab of ink was inscribed upon the text, Lamentation of the Fall, by Sariah the Blind, a history of these trying times was forever recorded for the generations to come. Many a scholar has attempted the interpretation, but almost all came to the same realization. She wrote of a bright truth. This truth could be seen as the survivors looked upon their past in reflection, and as they recounted their years beneath in the maddening darkness below. Whatever might have caused The Fall was behind them. What they had endured had changed them. And now, what lay ahead was their time of redemption.

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Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with another great story from Elgarion De’Kahli. It is entitled

The Destruction of Kahli
Background music is by Smartsound

In the Year Following The Cataclysm…
On Sunandai, the 1st of Janus, the Month of Daedalus, the Chilling Season of Wentru, in the Waking Dawn a location was Destroyed

Pale robed sorcerers both venerable and youthful joined anxious hands, alternating old then young, adept then novice, in a circle of thirty that surrounded a deep-blue pulsating lunar rift. The entirety of the Order of the White Cabal stood stalwart, in solemn meditation, focused desperately upon the final hope for the City of Kahli. A spell of immense proportions was called upon. With each word of magic uttered, the weave of the enchantment grew. With every misspoken syllable, the magical energies trembled as if to burst. But few mistakes were made, for the Order of the White Cabal were learned in the arts of magic. Every breath of their lives was exhausted in devotion to such studies, and their destiny was now full at hand. When one singer of spells misspoke, the neighboring mage would repeat the words in proper enunciation, repairing the ethereal threads nearly lost or wrongly woven. But sometimes even the most perfectly spoken syllable caused falter. As the moons broke apart, words of magic broke with them. Once powerful incantations seemingly became fruitless whispers of nothingness. As each focused minute passed, the rift grew brighter yet more turbulent. But as each mage spoke their turn, and as the turns passed from old to young, young to old, there was one who’s time was quickly approaching who dared to stare into the sky upon their impending doom.

This day had been foreseen. Magic of immense power would be summoned by the Order. They would draw upon the fickle energies of a lunar rift at the outskirts of Kahli. They would harness this power to extend a protective shield over the city, safeguarding all within. Saving the citizens, the Grand Repository, and the Caverns of the Cabal far beneath their feet. The vision from the Overseer gave them only days to prepare. The entirety of the Cabal were put to task, learning the enchantments which would be recited upon this fateful day. Even the youngest of neophytes were given many lines to rehearse and commit to memory.

As his neighbor’s enchantments were recited, the turn passed to Kala-Sharee De’Kahli, a young but promising member of the White Cabal. But Kala-Sharee did not speak; the young mage still stared upon the despair in the darkening sky above. The dooming silence caused the magical energies to buckle and sway. Crackles of lightning flickered throughout the circle of mages, the circle of stones. An odd calm took hold in the eyes of Kala-sharee De’Kahli, grandson to Marquis Elgarion De’Kahli. The decrepit Elgarion squeezed his grandson’s hand in hurried alarm with the quivering voice of an old man, “Kala! Your words… your WORDS… recite them now!” Kala tore his eyes away from the rain of shards and cast a baleful and resentful glare upon the unsuspecting, then yanked his hands from the circle. To the dread and surprise of all, a sinister sneer formed upon the young one’s lips. “I shall do no such thing.” Kala-Sharee strode defiantly into the darkness of the surrounding woods. “May Larmenius take you all,” he cursed from the shadow in a disdainful voice.

Drenching rain and bruising hail pelted down upon their soaked velvet robes and frigid skin. Scholarly men accustomed to dusty libraries and solitary study were assaulted by the cataclysmic winds. Flustered and desperate, Elgarion grasped outward to the other empty hand, to the most elder of his order, Galdareen the White, but before they could complete the circle, the spell collapsed and the rift began to swirl in an immense burst of blue energy. Many of the mages turned to Elgarion with panic or blame in their eyes. Tendrils of furious lightning blasted outward in all directions from the torrent of the portal. Each mage struck was sucked into the vortex. More streaks flashed outward, each finding something to tear away from this plane. Stones from the circle vanished in a bending of space, pulled into the Void. Mages once numbering thirty, now only half as many remained. Some ran from the circle of stones but the flashes of light plucked them away, pulling them into the ever darkening portal. Once vibrant blue, now the rift took on a blackness which was nauseating to behold.

Elgarion was captivated by the horror. Betrayed by his offspring’s son. The end of the world was apparent as the shattered moons rained down a terrible fury. Could the Avatars save them from this calamity? Were they the cause? Kahli’s plan for survival was lost. Even before the first shard struck the lands of Kahli, the torn rift, now opened into an unknown darkness, was pulling in more and more, starving for all which the surrounding lands could provide. Stones… trees… buildings… spires… men, women and children… the tendrils showed no mercy as they stripped away all which surrounded the tear in space, save Elgarion, who still stood awestruck. As the rift’s turbulence lessened, the crackling energies waned. A moment passed in which only the sound of the storm could be heard. Eerie wind danced about Elgarion’s rain drenched robes as he looked upon the devastation and the diminished opening, now nearly shut. A moment of acceptance and clarity came to the old sorcerer; what had transpired finally took toll upon him, and Elgarion become overwhelmed with emotion. The White Mage cried in desperation, tears of agony mixing with the rain upon his wrinkled cheek. Just as Elgarion raised his eyes to meet the shard fall, a final accusing finger of lightning struck him, pulling him into the Void and tearing him from this reality. The portal slammed shut just as the shards made landfall, laying waste to all that remained of the once vibrant city of Kahli.

In unfathomable time, hours perhaps years, minutes or millennia, the peoples of Kahli roamed the Void in sickening despair, perception of time or space no longer possible to them. Darkness consumed all. By touch alone could they move about, all sounds muffled, distorted or deafening. The ground beneath their feet shifting with mocking and confusing intent. But all was not lost, for deep within the dark, a solitary glow emitted from a beautiful form. Hope had survived. A beacon that would not be discovered for centuries to come. For the sapling which grew from the blessed essence of the White Acolyte of Artenius, was now a mighty tree many millennia old. For so long, The Devout One had protected the citizens of Kahli under its umbrella of radiance and warmth. Now, it stood waiting within the Void. Waiting for an old man, in his aimless wanderings through the maddening blackness, to step into its light.