History of the Black Emerald - Part I

The Legend

Legends talk of a time long ago when the gods walked the earth and defended mortals while living among them as friends, rulers, and allies. In those days, the sky was a much different place and bridges of water and light, fire and rock, metal and darkness swept upwards from mountaintops into places across the stars and into the mists behind the shadows that today we can no longer see. Our home was the garden of the gods, and all who ruled the heavens found it pleasing and a place to be shared. Rivalries were forgotten and evils muted in what became the great crossroads of the celestial powers.

The story of the Black Emerald comes from that time, when one of those dark places began to boil and seethe into our world like a kettle left untended. Within it lived a darkness that made shadow seem as light and a hunger that made starvation seem as the aftermath of a great feast. What it touched turned corrupt and foul; mad and sick. Nothing that fell into the arms of this shadow was ever nurtured or could sleep, only driven mad with a hate that seemed fueled by an unquenchable need to spread.

Despite the gentle warnings of the gods and the frowns of the stars, this child of chaos called Abanas, or hungry one in the old language, was found to reach far into the mortal world with such destructive fingers that even the mad growth of life’s unique insanity gifted to us in this place could not overwhelm it. The gods grew worried that unlike their own mistakes and excesses which were forgotten in a few generations, Abanas would slowly consume the mortal world, the place the gods had chosen to call home.

So beloved were they of their garden, that the gods gathered to exile Abanas for fear of what our world might become. They found him walking in the chasm of echos, weeping and gnashing his teeth so loudly that the whole valley shook.

The gods took Abanas by the arms and carried him weeping back to his home, and after placing guards to watch, they resumed their lives. But those who had touched Abanas quickly succumbed to dreams, then fear, then hate, then finally insatiable hunger. And when so many of them woke up screaming for blood, what had started as gentle correction turned quickly to bloody war.

That war tore the world asunder. When the divine powers finally united to drive back their twisted brethren, pushing them behind the veil from which Abanas had come, they were faced with an awful choice. Most of the mortals had died, or been driven underground. Those who remained cowered in fear of the gods they once loved.

The younger gods, furious with sadness and guilt over what happened to our forfathers wanted to seal Abanas’ home along with all the twisted gods he had corrupted for all eternity behind all the ritual power of the heavens. But a dying elder god named Ivyss, doomed by by the touch of Abanas and mortally wounded by his corrupted son, spoke up with labored breath.

“If we cherish them, we must let them come us on their own power and with their own will. We cannot protect them from every threat from the skies, and while we walk among them we invite their doom. The mortals must never forget. They must know what lurks behind the veil, for no prison we create can be certain to hold a god forever, but we must depart as well if they are to be safe.”

And so the gods decided to seal the heavens. One by one, they returned across their bridges, breaking them up into pieces we now call mountains and seas, the echos of some still visible as rainbows or crooked staircases we call lightning.

For Abanas, however, they crafted a tighter hold. Fearful of his unique appetite, each of the gods gave a portion of their power to form sigils around the walls of Abanas’ home. Ivyss gave the last of his power to create the doorway, a large dark green emerald that held the original rift to the place Abanas has come from. The emerald was entrusted to the humans before the last of the gods left, giving them a window into the chaos that had nearly destroyed them. Placed reverently in a temple near on the edge of the Chasm of Echos where Abanas was confronted.

We recovered.

Slowly we returned to the surface and from the woods and out of the mountains with eyes cast suspiciously at the skies and over the healing earth.

The phrase ‘like Abanas held at bay by Ivyss’, was spoken in hushed tones and became an oath spoken by mortals in reference to the sacrifice made by the gods as our people healed. That phrase was shortened over the years, its original meaning forgotten.

Today, we hear it spoken as a curse or in hushed tones.

A single word.

Abyss.

Aftermath

For long hours we paced the walls, staring outwards and downwards. Our imaginations created false alarms that had weapons out and bows drawn taught before that deafening silence reasserted its hold and the soldiers stood down.

Among my fellows, we spoke in hushed, confused tones, for the silence was not just a lack of sound, but a new feeling on the waves of the aether. For days, I, like the other priests, had felt the power of the dead citadels flowing forward, our prayers holding it back for a while to buy time before it surged in to waken the fallen. This time, there was nothing. The aether was quiet, and without the force that had been moving at the edges of our prayers and pushing inwards, the dead stayed dead.

Commander Vikerius finally called the end of hostilities but was less than happy to see me when I pushed into his chambers while the fortress breathed a sigh of relief shifting from arms to supply status.

“Commander” I spoke with some urgency, but between the bustle of renewed energy amonth the troops hurrying by and the fortress commander’s dislike of my cult, I was initially ignored. “Commander.” I repeated with a more forceful tone. “The risen dead do not simply give up. As much as I am grateful for the respite, we cannot simply assume this is over.”

“Appears they did, Lockith” Vikerius’ responded flatly without looking up, still staring at a map of the valley while half listening to damage reports coming in from couriers across the massive fort “after a siege of this length even you cannot make me ungrateful.” He looked haggard. We all did. His armor was stained with sweat, blood, and ichor, his hair matted to his skull and eyes sunken from weeks of short shift sleeping between constant assault from outside.

“Your gratitude is not my concern.” I kept my voice even, low but forceful. “The powers fueling this onslaught vanished, they were not beaten. Something has changed and until we know what it is, we are still vulnerable.”

“And what would you have me do, priest?” The commander slumped in his chair, finally eying me like one of the undead he’d thrown from the walls. “Send out an expedition? Use what few rested forces I have to counterattack when not a single soldier in these walls has had a good meal in weeks?”

“Citadel Xythul lies four days inside the valley. It was the last beacon for the aether cry that started this siege. While there may be no imperial cohort that can assemble, we may be able to call on the local lords and some of the forces for experienced champions among their ranks that could at least scout the place and get us some answers.”

“Is it not enough for you that the killing has stopped? Does your faith require yet more bloodshed?” I felt the dwarven paladin’s ego before Gothdred stepped into the chamber and snapped his comment.

“My faith requires that this kind of abomination against natural death be ended forever.” I inclined my head to the ancient dwarf, deliberately locking my sightless eye on his grim features.

“Then give it time.” He folded heavy arms across his broad armored chest. “You speak of adventures past our gates when our eyelids rest heavier than the stones of the floors on which we tred.”

“We don’t HAVE time….M’lord…” I growled through clenched teeth. “...with all due respect, commanders, this is my area of expertise and why my cult was asked to help. It is not in the way of the undead to change their minds or cease their attacks when they are committed. If on the verge of a victory - as we all knew they were - they cease their siege then whatever weakness has arisen is being plumbed and purged as we catch our breath. If we do not exploit it now, we may never see the chance to do so.”

Vikarius cast a glance at the dwarf whose steel grey eyes remained locked on me.

“He has a point, old friend.” Vikarius sighed, rubbing his temples. “The wars against evils of this kind always ended with the destruction of a relic or creature from beyond enslaving them to a darker will. I can think of no battle against the risen that ceased another way.”

“Our strongest veterans lie dead or exhausted. You would call on home defense forces for such a thing?”

“I am no warrior.” I spoke carefully. “from whence we call them or whatever force is their current station is beyond my knowledge or expertise. What I do know is that the people of the highlands and surrounding lands owe us a debt. If the fortress had fallen, their families, communities, and lands would have faced a worse fate than death. That fate yet may await them if the doors of Xythul remain shut and its depths darkened to our vision while we celebrate what may be a very temporary peace. To cure this plague, we must find the rotten heart of it and purge it completely. Call on them for this one last push so we can truly end this war.”

Vikarius stared at me, a familiar disgust across his features as he weighed the idea. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, running one hand across his scalp before blinking away the encroaching fatigue. “My responsibility is the defense of this fortress, not the investigation or even elimination of the undead threat. The Emerald Legion handles such things.” He paused, wetting his lips before continuing. “But the opportunity is here and now. So I will give you authority … and responsibility … to contact the local lords for this excursion. This is your problem, priest, and you will be accountable for its results. Volunteers only. I will not conscript anyone from a region that has already lost so much.”

“I understand.” I nodded, slowly, panic filtering through my head as I tried to figure out how to even approach the often traditional and suspicious leaders of the racial communities as a priest of death. I had hoped the paladins would inspire local heros, but instead it would be my dusk gray robes and black star emblem that would be begging for help in the name of a quiet death. He motioned to a scribe, quickly drawing up the edict that would give me the necessary authority to seek audience, and clutching the paper, I turned and made my way outside.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

Silent Night, Unholy Night

When the silence came, none of us were ready.

For nearly two weeks, the remnants of the Imperial army fought alongside Elven skirmishers, Dwarven paladins, Orcish blademasters and priesthoods from gods that wouldn’t be caught sharing the same street before this unexpected and final war. My own cult would have been eradicated by the Light of Antioch mere days ago, but was embraced as brothers as we chanted the litany of life alongside enemies and friends, all of us unified in a last attempt to keep the swarming dead at bay.

It created a bloody cycle.

For hours, steel clashed against bone and sinew, throwing crawling hordes from the walls, fighting the risen through breaches created by foul magic, siege engines, or the raw, unrelenting perseverance of a thousand claws raking at hundred year old mortar until blocks of stone fell loose. Human and Elven archers fought back against the flying monstrosities, combinations of skeletons, bats, and something a lot less tangible that soared on wings of hate to rip men from the walls and hurl them into the swarming hunger below.

We’d use everything. Magic, prayer, blessed weapons, hell, we’d throw heated soup down the side of a rampart if we thought it’d give us a chance. Then when the bodies filled the trenches and piled around the towers fifty meters deep, the onslaught would stop and I, along with the other priests, would call out to my brothers and sisters to begin the chant.

The chant. The words of power that identified life and called to its origins. Every element and force in our universe has its words that when woven into poem and song can fortify or destroy. Prayer is power here, and always has been, and with a thousand voices we prayed. But that prayer, here, the one calling for life against the powers of shadow - it was like wiping frost from a window pane in deepest winter using a wet rag. The moment you stopped moving, the very wetness that let you clear the glass would begin to freeze becoming exactly what you fought to stop.

Just so, the very moment we stopped chanting, the flooding power of the black valley started to rise. And how long can you keep praying when the words themselves are power and unity of speech is warmth. How long before your voice stutters or cracks or you fall out of synch with your fellows? Fatigue - a sensation our enemy did not know - was the final arbiter of when the music of prayer ceased and the song of battle began once again. We bought our soldiers time to rest, time to reload, time to reorganize and clear the bodies from the walls but we could not buy them an end to the onslaught.

Piece by piece, we were losing.

As a priest of death, I felt it every time a soldier passed, followed by the twinge of nausea as their life was ripped from the peace of an honorable passing back into the parody of existence that left them crawling upwards with the rest of the massed undead at our gates.

The fortress was cracking, but not nearly as fast as the will of our soldiers. They begged for answers, prayed for guidance, wept from fatigue and the deep, chilling knowledge that no matter how well they fought, the enemy they drove back down the walls into the pits and fields below would rise again.

So when the silence came, we all held our breath. We had all heard the failure of the chant as it fell into disarray, we had all felt the power of the prayer evaporate like a morning mist, but this time the flood of unholy shadow that had rushed forwards like a tide countless times before simply did not come. There was no cheering or celebration. Instead, silence was met with stunned silence. Soldiers held weapons in trembling hands, their skin soaked with sweat, their bodies saturated with fatigue, and their souls overflowing with despair.

We waited, breathless.

But the swarm did not come.

And we did not know why.

It was almost worse.

A Letter Home

Dear Jais,

I’m sorry.

I promised I’d write when I got here, but I barely had time to speak with the elders before I was fighting for my life. Remember how we used to play as kids? We’d pretend about how the war would be? Remember how neat and easy the battles were with time between chores to restock our arrows, sharpen our swords, and raise an imaginary mug to an enemy’s defeat each day before running home?

We knew it wasn’t like that, even then, but the difference between the skirmishes and fighting we’ve done for father on the borders after growing up is as different from this war as our real fighting was from those days of childhood.

This foe is not the Korgeth barbarians, Kamir separatists, or the Emerald Legion. This foe defies every rule of warfare. As I write this, I have to push back the ever present headaches I get from the droning voices of the monks. They line the walls, unified and encouraged by High Priest Sagon’s voice, singing the hymn of light over their droning chant with a voice that echoes off the stone. This is the closest thing to silence we get anymore, and while it was reassuring for us the first few days, now it threatens to drive us mad. What I wouldn’t give for some real silence for just a few minutes.

But the alternative is worse.

Their chanting buys us time, time to rest, time to reload, time to…

I keep forgetting you don’t know how it is out here. I’ve had to learn so much in so little time that it’s easy take for granted how the routines of my life have changed these last few weeks into something twisted and strange even to a seasoned soldier like you.

I got sent to Skyspear fortress without a lot of explanation at the time. This place makes the castles of home look like toys. The fortress blocks the only pass between the Athyan valley and Kiel highlands; twin towers to either sheer mountainside straddling the pass and cutting it in half with a series of walls over fifty meters high. A network of courtyards runs between those walls giving the heavily armed platforms circling each spire at alternating levels full view and ability to empty warehouses full of oil, arrows, and any number of magics down onto those who might come seeking to bring hostility to our plains. This place is a relic of the old imperial wars, far too massive and grand for any of the conflicts our people have faced for centuries.

But we’ve never been more grateful for the excesses of our forefathers. Every resource has been required and every weapon deployed to hold back this new foe and gods help me I can’t say it’s enough.

Galock is yelling again, adding to the noise by bashing his axe on his shield with a steady rasping clang that every single soldier knows all too well. They struggle slowly to their feet, trying to focus sleep bleary eyes. That old orc is as relentless as our enemy, his skin glistening with the same sweat that shines on the arms and faces of every soldier stationed here. He can hear the change in the chant, the wavering in the song, he knows the power of the priest’s music will falter soon and with it the respite we’ve earned. We never get more than a few hours. The fatigue is so bad here that after each wave, the men who walk along the lines gathering the dead slap them across the face in order to find out if they’re casualties or have simply collapsed from exhaustion.

The tired are dragged into the towers, the dead are thrown off the walls. The process isn’t perfect. More than a few times I’ve heard screams from those waking up half way through a descent after the percursory slap failed to rouse them. That’s the price of this war. We simply cannot afford to leave our dead anywhere behind our lines when the singing stops.

Jais, we’re losing. We’re losing because we never had a way to truly win. Our enemy is piled at our feet, covering the base of our walls in mountains of dead flesh and when the singing stops, the power from the valley floods back in and every one of the dead rises, picks up their weapon, and attacks again. We fight valiantly, we fight creatively, we fight with the best of leaders and the most seasoned of generals and we are victorious. We win the day over and over only to watch as our numbers slowly dwindle and theirs swell with the bodies of our fallen.

There are plans, desperate plans, plans that involve powerful magic to destroy the bodies utterly or to reroute the Riftwyrm river to sweep away the undead legions. Meanwhile, the dead sleep in piles at the base of our towers and walls like kindling wood around a roast, patiently waiting until the eventual fatigue of the monks causes the power of their song to fail, green eyes blazing back into an unholy inferno of unquenchable hate. But each of these plans risks something worse. What if the waters simply carry the polluted dead deep into our country? What if the spells to destroy them go wrong and topple the towers?

These risks might be more acceptable if we were the only gate under siege, but the valley is flooding outwards, pushing every keep and border. Its holocaust making the wars between the two empires and even the underdark encroachment a joke by comparison. I’ve seen dark elf and paladin fighting side by side since the black flood started, and yet with all the power of shadow and light, we cannot stem the tide.

If you get this, I beg you to take our family north, into the mountains, away from the lowlands. The tide of reinforcements we’ve gotten has faded to a trickle, and in time we will run out of men to hold this place. When that happens, I can promise nothing of our future, but if there is a chance to be had it will be out and away from the cities or highland farms. Your injury spared you a post in this doomed place, and perhaps that disappointment may be our family’s salvation.

There. I heard it. The song has faltered, and the rustling rumble of the shifting mass far below is echoing up the stone and whispering through the cracks its promise of inevitable undeath. I hear Galock yell for oil, his bellow echoing upwards as the last of the flaming liquid drops in sheets onto the shifting piles below. Leaning forward, I watch the bones knit and shift, rise and hiss, flaming skeletons and beasts made of sinew rising to dig lifeless claws into the mortar of our keep and begin their climb again. Hideous shadows rise into the air, ghosts of the tortured fallen, floating upwards to meet the blessed arrows and magics of our tower wizards. I have to go. My spells may be the difference between life and loss for dozens on the walls against enemies their steel cannot touch.

Jais, do not wait. By the time this raven reaches you with my letter, it will have been days, and this place will not last as long. I will do what I can to survive, but it is our family who needs you now. If by Ashra’s blessing I escape, I will join you soon. Hold me in your prayers, and comfort our mother. Be strong, and remember I love you all.

Kimeon Talman

Archmage of the Second Circle