The Days of the Dimensional Rift
It had been raining in Asdune. Water was everywhere- in the clothes that hung wet and uncomfortable under the armor, trickling down the back, in the mud-caked boots, in our soggy, inedible rations. A warrior brushed off a raindrop that trickled down his nose and shuddered with the cold, drawing his wet, cold, limp and useless cloak tighter around him. I sensed his, our Jarl Parnell’s thought, “Curse Orsan. Did he have to go off on his own without telling anyone and then get himself captured. And if he had to, couldn’t he at least pick better weather! Rash, but brave, is our Orsan. If he lives, we will rescue him.” I rearranged my cloak and sneezed, “By the Lady! I am getting too old for this!”
And then they came as Orsan had warned us, striding confidently, arrogant in their numbers, certain that they had the element of surprise. We taught them otherwise soon enough. That was one slaving trip that failed – no helpless villager did they seize that day. Orsan was restored to us- but our losses too were high. Not one of remained unscarred. When the battle was over our brave Jarl, our Warlord Parnell was not amongst us- gravely wounded, captured or dead we did not know. Alas the Warband was in no state to fight another battle, if such would come. And the Ogres gloated and shouted about what would happen to Dragon's Exodus when they would come again.
For the first time in the Circle’s history an open appeal to the Clans was made. The danger that faces us was too great for us to face it alone. But alas, none but Harmony heeded it. Some acted out of pride, others from misplaced confidence that the invaders would do them no harm, others had a more sinister motive. Whatever the reason, the realms were unprepared for what followed.
It was an unusually warm autumn day in Arnath. The citizens had left their houses to sit on the porches warming their bones in the shining sun after the weeks of bad weather. The merchants made swift business trying to make a profit before the winter set in. A carnival atmosphere prevailed as the people strolled down the Royal Walk eating the delicious Arnathian pastries. The champions patrolled the streets and there was peace in the lands. When a column of smoke rose above the Central Square, none paid it much attention. Fires were common- young bloods brawling under the influence of the strong Arnathian beer, strappling mages showing off their newly acquired fireball spells- any of them could start a blaze in this dry weather. But alas, this was no ordinary smoke.
The column twisted and turned and from the mist of its dark Central Core flashed lightning. As it turned, it became more solid until it rose in a solid column into the sky- dark and sinister. Lightning flashed again and darkness descended over the City. And then all grew quiet. And in the silence, an Ogre Warlord stepped from the portal that opened. An army followed him- young ogres and old ogres and even children were spewed from its seemingly fathomless depths. They ravaged, and they burnt and they looted. Alas, the much weakened Warband, and the ranks of our Tribesmen that were hastily summoned to the city’s aid were swept aside like so many leaves before the storm.
The portal was closed by the Lord Sherrivus in his mercy, but we knew not from where the ogres came. “Would they come again and if so, where would they strike”, was the question on every lip. Many were the offerings made on the altars of the Gods that day; never were the prayers more sincere. But alas, the portals opened and Arnath was torched again. And then when the rest of the realms breathed a sigh of relief hoping it was only Arnath’s scourge, the dark column rose above Einar too. The realms trembled and the Ogres laughed at our impotence, our futile efforts to stem the rising tide as they burned, looted and killed with impunity.
One could almost sense the smell of despair in the air. Assigned to guarding King Adrian, I remember the long hours we of the Warband spent standing with drawn sword guarding the doors of his private chapel. What he prayed for I know not, but it was said that on his knees he prayed fervently that the ogres strike elsewhere. It is true that he showed no excessive sorrow when Einar and Prexion went up in flames, but then by then he had sunk into a dark depression- a disaster on a foreign shore would be but another drop in this veritable ocean of sorrows. And then there are always malicious rumors that idle tongues spread about the great.
And then Misanthropy stepped into the fray. I still know not what made the Dark Goddess declare war on our already bleeding Clan. Or rather.. perhaps I know, but my heart cannot accept that reason- it is hard to accept the existence of true evil. We were weak and they were strong: sowing dissentions, creating doubt in the midst of the faithful has always been the way evil triumphed. With the smell of the burning Cities in their nostrils, the smoke rising before their eyes from the still smoldering ruins of Arnath, Einar and Prexion, with the bodies of its citizens still warm and unburied, they accused the Circle of the slaughter of the ‘innocent’ Ogres- us who had suffered the most due to their depredations, lost our Warlord to their swords, who had not a Clansman who had not died in the realm’s defense. It was strange how many accepted their claim, ignoring the evidence before their eyes. Perhaps here too evil magic was at work, the force of some great demonic evil.
And then we heard that a traitor was in our midst. It was ironic that it was Orsan the Ogre, he who was the one to warn the realms of the invasion, who would betray us. He was moved by the tears of Gaba the Ogre Champion who had come to him with fake tears in his eyes and lying words on his tongue- who spoke of his children being killed by our Warriors. He who should have known better, believed him and betrayed us to our oldest enemy. He died a traitor’s death by his own hand. Alas, great evil can come from an attempt to do great good. As our brother Ciryath is fond of saying, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” May his troubled soul find peace in the afterlife.
And the Ogres still came- burning and pillaging at will. The Divine Traewyn granted Harmony’s elf Tyle the boon of a magical device that enabled him to close a portal, but alas as it opened another opened elsewhere. Harmony’s own Crystal Temple was not spared. There was no end in sight. The realms groaned under their tyranny and hoped for deliverance.
The Justice of Harmony, the Elf Elradu sought to bring the warring clans together, uniting the realms in their opposition of this dark force. And we, who usually distrust negotiations and binding alliances, felt it was time to make an exception – for surely this was one time to forget our differences and come together. The old Troll Rukhsanaa said in the meeting of the Council, “Easy to break single twig. Tie together you cannot. Easy defeat armies ‘un by ‘un, difficult kill all clans’ warriors at once.” And so we sent a delegations to the conference. A Warrior who accompanied our Prophet told me that things began to go wrong from the beginning. Misanthropy’s Dominator Herth left the meeting when the discussion had barely started. Rumours spread like wildfire- those close to him said that he took offense at being not invited (albeit the proclamation was sent to all and a copy posted in the Lazy Elf Inn for all to read), others that it was over some imaginary slight offered to him by Elradu, still others whispered that Misanthropy had never desired peace and was in secret league with the invaders. Whatever the case may be, the stands hardened and the realms came to be divided even further.
I remember the day when the news reached us on our Island. Each reaction was so different. Brachir, the composed was furious as I had never seen her before or since. Augnum was reconciled and seemed content to fight this battle on along. Rukhsanaa just shook her grizzled head and grumbled under her breath about the stupidity of the young. None of us thought of finding a way out of the crisis that faced us. None, except
Ciryath. One dark night while I stood sentinel, I felt his thought, “ A single sword more or less would make no major difference in the coming days. But then mayhap the Elves in their wisdom would know something about this menace. The time has come for me to head back home.” The next day when I returned he was gone, returned to his native Elven Borderlands with Pendragon Vimyr’s blessings.
And we fought on without him. One battle is pretty much like another and I would not bore you with the endless accounts of ogres slain or mourn individually each martyr that laid down his life for the realms- their names shall forever remain etched in my heart. Suffice it to say, the warriors of the Ravens, of Eternal Suffering, Salvation, Harmony and our own Circle kept the enemy at bay, but with each successive attack our foe got stronger. Demons joined the ranks of the Ogres, and we knew not what that meant.
And then, as suddenly as they had opened, the portals closed, and for days peace reigned. Still there was no rejoicing in the realms, for we knew it to be but the lull before the storm.
And then it came- not a storm but a raging tempest. Arnath was the first to go up in flames and soon black columns of smoke billowed over Prexion and Aden as well. We the defenders were grievously outnumbered, overwhelmed, overpowered- I saw my comrades die on every side.
An Ogre’s spear pierced my chest and as I fainted, I remember praying to the Gods to grant me a swift, clean, good death. And surely what better way is there to die than for a cause that is just and true and on the battlefield with your friends beside you. The Gods listened to the prayer, but in their mercy and forgiveness granted life instead.
I missed the remaining battle and was not among those who fought the ogres in the end. I had not heard of Ciryath’s success, or saw the embassy’s triumphant return with the Ring of Dimensions. I was not amongst those that entered into the Demon Overlord’s lair below the Demon Temple. I was not there when our foe was slain by the Count Nante of the Circle and Drachenfell of Maelstrom. I was not there to witness Shaithus the virtuous and Phaisith of the Darkness join hands to defeat the demons. I did not see the portals close never to open again.
It was only later that I was told these things by those who were privileged to be amongst the demon slayers.
It is they who told us of the fate of the demon prince who had gained the ability to summon his ogres from the dimension from which the necromancers summon the occasional demon. It is they who told us about the magic that the Ring had wrought- creating a momentary portal leading back to the spell’s caster, to the very demon Prince himself. All this we heard later and our hearts were filled with wonder.
Thus ended the days of the Rift in the Dimensions, the days when the realms were torn and left bleeding, only to be healed. Aye. evil seemed to be ascendant for a while, but in the end it was good that won- virtue always does triumph over evil.
By Nimue Cymraes