Moonlight spilled through the ancient windows of the Dragonblood Library. From the labyrinth of mazes stretching into darkness, books of the old world and the fae decorated the vaulted shelves.
The inscribed architecture of stone and wood filled the library from balconies to pillars with lifelike claws stretching out to hold basins of lamp oil throughout the stone halls. Master craftsmen of an age long forgotten had left their signature designs on everything.
The library had no equal in all the world. The architecture was a testament to the masters’ love of art, touching everything from the inlaid designs of walls and curtains to the tables and chairs. Nothing was left untouched. From the main balcony looking down into the lobby, a massive dragon was engraved on the marble floor.
Every corridor eventually led to a large open hall. In the center of the hall stood statues of men and women dressed in clothing from different periods. They were the history makers, men and women who had shaped their time.
To one side of the chamber stood an enormous hearth that continuously burned. Above the mantle place, lifelike statues of gargoyles and dragon heads stared into the empty hall. Behind them, a scene was carved out of the wall spanning from one end to the other. The display was the treaty of Dragons and man.
On the summit of the Whiteface Mountains, home to many of the dragon tribes, a sorry looking band of men, women and children huddled together in rags of clothing. Over them, a dragon loomed tall and foreboding. His claws stretched outward to the human vagabonds as if giving a speech.
Long wax candles sat at the closest table to the hearth burning away. New ones continued to light the delicate words written on the many open books that littered the table.
An old man sat hunched over one of the numerous books. His long white hair and beard flowed halfway down his body. He resembled somewhat a dwarf who had lost his way but his stature was too tall. A strangely designed staff leaned against the table next to him. It was made of old gnarled wood that smelled of oak. At the top of the staff was held a strange globe. It gave off a faint light and if looked at closely, one could see tiny clouds swirling inside. From beneath these clouds, a living world came alive.
The man mumbled something to himself while tracing words with a finger.
They ended with the rest of the page blank.
Looking up for a second, he stared across the room to a large doorway with the engraving of a sword that would find a vacant hall and a pool with a raised dais at its center. Once, long ago, it had held the symbol of Dragonblood’s reign, a flaming sword that never stopped burning. From the windows of the library, the twin moons of Diea and Miea cast illuminating shadows down into the library hold. Silhouettes of something floating in the sky cast dark shadows through the window before the moons showed bright again. With a sigh, the old man returned his gaze to the blank spot on the page.
Taking a quill nearby, he dipped it into an ink jar and began writing.
“For ages, the lands of the fae have been without rest. The human population within the fae have tipped the balance of magic and nature. If I could reverse time and forbid the first travelers who settled the lands, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I am one, tasked with recording the events of history.
I feel the disturbance grow, the restlessness throughout Extal of which this world is but one of many within the wheel. I feel its aches in my bones. The time of great change is before us all.
The Latra texts concerning the firstborn is obscure but I still remember. Though most have forgotten the accounts of their origins, I do not. But what of it? Is it not written down in the Books of Records? I speak of the Creators and their abominations. Evil was brought to the lands of Exodus by the dark heart of the creator tribes. In this age, humans invented massive machines that combined a form of magic foreign to Exodus and the power of alchemy. The effects of such creations were abominable. The minds of the inventors were deprived of goodness, wanting only power. Terror was in every man who hid from their leaders.
Out of experiments, were born Dragonblood. They were the closest the Creators had come to bridging the gap between the blood of magic and human children.
Aided by the gods, a second attempt was made at creating Nephilim. With powers of both supernatural and human technology, the immortal law was broken as was done at the dawn of man. These are stories that are lost forever. Nobody knows what became of these creatures other than this is where one such race is named, the Nithi. These are half brothers to the Elliad or elves in the human tongue. What became of them, only the elven people know those stories.
Dragonblood were outcasts to society. With madness controlling most to the point of death, an entire generation was made to live apart as things other than humans. Their masters did unspeakable things to them in the name of science.
In secret, they plotted their escape from their creators and in time fled to the wilderness of the great Exodus plains.
For over a year, they used the power they were born with to evade capture and hid in mines, fields, mountain passes and forests. Their flight took them across the known territories of the human colonies and into the western uncharted lands of Exodus, a world man had only begun to explore.
They formed themselves into a tribe of nomads, living off the land when they could. But the constant pursuit of their captors never allowed for them to adequately resupply with needed essentials.
With half the population dead, the remnant found themselves at last scattered at the base of the Whiteface Mountains, an impenetrable wall separating two lands.
From high above, dragons looked down on the straggling human outcasts. They had watched for a hundred years as man colonized the fertile grounds where before, humans had only visited the fae once or twice from age to age before returning to their own world.
Their stay in this world slowly began to contaminate the balance of nature, distorting and creating chaos. The Ancients of which dragons were part of, knew what man had done to Earth and the ancient war between the deceivers and Elyon.
Through the ages of human history, it seemed to always repeat itself, humans ever wanting to rule each other, to crave the power that corrupted so many.
No, the Ancient Lords knew all too well mankind was bent to their own wicked heart’s craving. And now they were on Exodus bringing with them the taint of chaos, unbalancing all that was good.
Since the dawn of creation, no native of Exodus tasted death. But man introduced such darkness and it tainted the very air. The decaying poison slowly distorted all that was good and pure.
Still, the outcasts drew pity.
Dragonblood were adopted into the dragon tribes, to assimilate and live as one.
The act was not without reason. The high lords saw the introduction of man as something inevitable. There were too many now to forcibly remove without great bloodshed and damnation to immortal races. To Dragonblood would be given the task of ambassadors to mankind. They were to be the voice of the Ancient races. In doing this, the evil potential of man would be cut with reason, guidance and perhaps a bit of fear. For in Dragonblood, the high lords instilled the power of guardians to watch over mankind and their ways.
This did little to stall the Chaos Wars that ripped the world apart, the blood enchantments of the Emperor of Night. But what of that story? It’s already written in the History of Worlds on Tearvane. He was cast out with spells of warding to be exiled on the furthest regions of Extal.”
Setting the quill aside, the old man looked up.
The dragon tribes had come back to argue in heated anger with their shrill cries. The restlessness from all manner of Ancients had continually increased. Humanity had been left alone for too long. Evil grew and festered in them like a bleeding sore.
Three hundred years ago, the whispers of ancient gods imparted dreams to reform something intentionally lost in the Forgotten Age. With dreams, reality shaped itself into the White Council in the wilderness of Rumeran, in the western lands of Elise.
In high places, the gods whispered secret knowledge to a few, to grow them into powerful users of magic and in so doing, rebuilt a lost empire. Over time, the White Council embarked on a treaty with all the human kingdoms of the world.
At the same time, members of the Dragonblood Council broke their own laws, caving to be one like the world, to be accepted.
The Sword of Flame, a symbol of their legacy, vanished from the Sword Hall as did the protection they had taken for granted since the time of their beginning.
The White Council wasted no time and marched on Dragonblood’s Kingdom in a show of force. The two ideals could not co-exist and with Dragonblood’s betrayal, nothing stood in the way for the white mages to annihilate an old age enemy of the gods.
They marched across the kingdom destroying all semblance of what had been Dragonblood. The mountain palace burned as fire rained down with magical force, destroying what had been thought impenetrable. There was no mercy to be had and the slaughter of every living thing covered the land in blood.
When the lands of Dragonblood was emptied of the living, the war mages marched across the world, destroying every last vestige of Dragonblood in order to erase its people and legacy from recorded history.
The White Council and her nine gods would now rule the world of Exodus however they deemed fit.
The old man leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his long white beard. He knew why the gathering was taking place. There was a great disturbance in all the fae worlds, culminating on Exodus. Worlds were dying, depleted of magic. The ancient trees cried out in pain. There was an awakening in the most conservative Ancients. They whispered a name forgotten by all of humanity.
When Dragonblood fell, so did the enchantments that bound its power.
The old man raised his hands slightly in the air and gazed at the increasing wrinkles. His hair had turned white long ago. The aches he had never felt for so many ages had quickly appeared the time the White Council had butchered his own people.
Closing his eyes softly, the old man recalled a face and a tear trickled down into his beard.
“Thomas…” he whispered softly. “Brother…you have passed on before me leaving me in this desolate, dark place.”
Opening his eyes slowly, he stared into the hearth’s burning flames.
He remembered the pain.
But he also remembered them…
When Dragonblood was still in their infacy, before fleeing the first colonies, they were the builders of immense structures and machines for the Emperor. The Gatebridge, a man-made crossroads had been finally achieved without having to travel the dangerous mists of the fae. The emperor had now successfully built a road across Extal where he could travel unhindered to whatever world he wanted within the span of minutes across a bridge spanning the in-between of realities.
When the High Lords granted the remnant Dragonblood the title of emissaries, a requirement was demanded. One of them would have to sacrifice who they had been to become the Drugi-Ward, or in the common tongue, gatekeeper. Granted unusual amounts of power, their task would be to protect the Fae worlds. So long as a Drugi-Ward was present, no amount of power could cross the threshold of the in-between state without his permission.
This would also mean the Drugi-Ward would remain inside the Fae mist between worlds.
Knowing he was losing his brother, the old man decided he would task himself with recording the history of Exodus so that whatever befell the world of man, history would not truly be lost.
He breathed in softly at recalling how old he was now. Ages passed him by several times.
But now, he was in the twilight years. The magic had gone out of the Midlands Dragonblood resided in. He could feel it fading from his own body, aging him each year.
With the destruction of Dragonblood, the veil between worlds had opened unhindered. The emperor wouldn’t hesitate to ram the gatebridge open indefinitely if he could.
It seemed Elyon had other plans and imparted to Thomas two mysterious humans he was to gather to himself and hand over the mantle of protector to. But not the way anyone forsaw.
Daren Cole and Alicia Alcorin were their names.
The old man had called to them even as his brother gave his last breath. His death broke the spells that had warded the in-between state, all but loosed for Neverworld’s creations to flow through with nightmarish reality.
He had reservations with the woman when giving them special artifacts imbued with powerful magic. Alicia’s bloodline held deep evil as her family was kin to the Emperor. Both families had dealt wickedly with Ancient races.
But it wasn’t his choice to make and he wouldn’t go against Elyon’s wishes.
In the end, victory seemed won. At least, for a time. Without a Drugi-Ward, barring a passage only slowed the inevitable. It never truly stopped it.
From the Twilight Forest of Eden, Queen Elrosa had sent emissaries of her own to assess the power of the enemy she felt growing.
The two elven warriors returned to Exodus with the two humans in tow, to cross into the Whiteface Mountains. The High Lords wanted an account of the danger they felt looming on the horizon.
A reading of the Dragon Prophecy foretold on the eve of Dragonblood’s fall was given. The task fell to Daren and Alicia to build a council without ties to any government or people. The Phantom Council would seek the signs of the fabled prophecy given in hopes that they could forestall the doom it predicted on all.
Turning his gaze to a large burning hearth in the room, the old man sighed and stretched his aching bones. In a soft whisper, he said, “As in the days of the Forgotten Age, we will bring war again and cover the entire world...and beyond.” He shook his head softly. “I wish you were here brother… you were the one who counseled men, who stood at the gates of darkness. I am but a historian lost to the world of men.”
He turned his gaze on an unsealed scroll he had read earlier in the day.
A messenger had come bearing news.
Ravage was found and accepted the invitation.
That name sent chills down his spine. All who know the history of man knew well the dark prince’s true name. The world was truly dark when one needed the aid of such a man.
Another name was given.
A boy was born without title or home. He would be marked and needed watching. The time of great change was close at hand.
Slowly rising from his chair, the old man took the scroll and stepped towards the hearth, throwing it into the flames. There would never be a trace of who had written those words or why it had to be left secret.
Sitting back down, he lit a pipe and let the smoke of the weed flow about him. Preparations needed to be made. If prophecy was true, the first signs of it’s coming to fruition was evident. The boy would usher in the end of the age. The future of two worlds rested now in the hands of the prophesied few.