Kraedon mythos - The Sins Of Our Fathers

Light was legion, marching forth from the rising sun to conquer the world with swords of unforgiving purity that the ambiguity of night retreated from hastily. Though the world bowed to the self-righteous conquerors, portals remained to the all consuming night that was the beginning and would be the end. Within a realm of such shadows formed from the mighty trees of the rainforest of Deirdahor, a boy sat before an old man, beating away at toy drums with his tiny hands curled into fists.

The old man gently took his drums away, and the boy looked up at his grandfather’s face with wide eyes in which swam a hint of indignation, but did not make much protest for he knew that his grandfather would tell him a tale. The boy did love the rich baritone that was the older man’s voice.

‘Time enough to play the drums when you grow older, little one’, said the grandfather his words tinged with melancholy, ‘you’ll spend half your life doing nothing else.’ The boy stared at his grandfather the way only children could, drinking in everything that was said with undivided attention. ‘It is time again to tell you the story that will shape your life, a tale I have told before and will tell you again so you never forget it, for it is our inheritance to seek absolution for a sin committed by our blood ages past. It is ours to keep the extinction of our people at bay.

’Ten generations ago, there was a man in our tribe, a man who possessed all the virtues that our tribe demanded in abundance. He had the strength of the mighty elephants the savage predators of Deirdahor fear to hunt. He was quick as wood-hungry wildfires. The greatest of his virtues however, was that he could hear the secret words whispered in the rustling of leaves, in the cries of the animals. He could harness the wild magic of the forest, and ride it with a skill that rivaled Ahedam, the first man, the apprentice of the Demiurge himself. Aptly then was he named after the sorcerer.

‘Time fed him with these virtues with unprecedented generosity, and soon the tribesmen began to envy and fear this man who threatened to grow into something more. Yet they did not act upon these trepidations, for his words had the power to pluck the strings of the mind and the heart. These trepidations were also overpowered by another fear, that of the demise of fear in rival tribes, which would be birthed by the death of our greatest warrior. So this man not only survived, but thrived.

‘One night when the moons stared wide eyed at the follies of mortals, Ahedam went hunting as was his wont. Among the creatures of the night he became one, and his keen ears listening to the hints of predators that the blood oaks sighed. Upon his visage surfaced a feral smile as his heart began to beat faster. That night he would hunt the panther, a king crowned by the sun’s departure.

‘So he stalked with his senses attuned to one purpose, for he knew that if the knowledge of his temerity became known, the distinction between the hunter and the hunted would quickly blur. He was quick and silent, stepping on dead leaves and fungi lightly. Soon he found himself walking upon a familiar path heading towards the carotid artery of Deirdahor, the Deirdareis, which was a river holy to the Nine Tribes of the Exodus.

‘As he approached the ever flowing waters, he heard the soft lilting tones of a woman singing. The voice curled around him, merged with his soul, carrying it everywhere and nowhere. His body floated in the currents of the song and took him to the source. A woman stood by the river, clothed in naught but the light of the moon. She had the night woven into her thick flowing hair. Her eyes were the green of glistening leaves after a rainfall.

‘The inhumanly beautiful eyes turned to regard Ahedam. For what seemed hours they stared, neither speaking a word, until the woman faded into the wilderness. Ahedam made no move to follow. He sank to the forest floor, his mind unable to comprehend what had occurred. He discovered that darkness remained. He returned to the Sedtun that was his tribe's when he realized hunting for a panther paled into insignificance.

‘He returned every night to the place he had seen her, and she did not return. After seven nights she returned to sing the same song. Once she was done she gifted Ahedam with her regard once more. It took Ahedam seven more seven-nights to summon the courage to speak to her. It took seven times that for them to fall in love.

‘The happiest hours of the life of Ahedam came with a pause of seven, yet soon his heart grew greedy. He knew deep in his heart that the woman who had his love would not grant her consent for more. So he channeled the wild magic into his hands and shaped the Heartwood of Deirdahor into a drum.

‘When he sealed the act with his blood, the breeze that gently caressed the canopy grew into an exhalation of fury. From the wood of the trees flawless brown skin was formed. The shadows wove into each other and became velvet hair. From the leaves emerged green eyes, terrible in their rage. She roared with anger, and then faded back into the forest, and in that terrible instant Ahedam knew that by putting fetters on that which should not be chained he had tainted his soul. With that act, the love that she had for him turned into hate.

‘He learned to play the drum as quickly as he always learned. He learned to manipulate the mood of Deirdahor by changing the rhythm of its heart beat, the rhythm with which his hands hit the Heartwood. He played night and day to pacify the forest, to keep it from destroying the tribes. Only one night in seven was it safe for him to rest.

‘The forest kept away from the Nine Tribes of the Exodus, but the blood of Ahedam was cursed. After a child was born, the mother would die. Yet a child must be born of that blood, for only he could play the drum and keep death away. Thus, in every generation, the Ashfall tribe sacrificed a woman to such a marriage.

‘The woman with the emerald eyes was never seen again by any man of the Nine Tribes, but her haunting song clung to everything that was green in Deirhador.

‘That was the tale, young one, which you must never forget. An obligation you must never forget. It is our inheritance to fight for the absolution of a sin committed by our blood ages past. It is ours to keep the extinction of our people at bay.’

In the many layered silence that followed, the boy grew impatient. He rose up to his tiny feet and wobbled to where the old man put the drums. He held it close for a moment and looked up at his grandfather with wide guileless eyes, and then proceeded to smack it with his hands with all the earnestness he could summon. The grandfather watched him with sadness and pride, and so did eyes that were the green of glistening leaves after a rainfall.

Part of the Book in Conception

Many ages before the ascent of man, when the world was still young, there lived the Giants. Gentle creatures they were, these Beings so beloved to life. Coaxed by their song the forests grew filled with magnificent trees that spanned the height of hills. Coaxed by their loving touch flowers bloomed in the most arid desert. The most feral and the gentlest of creatures lived in harmony in their presence, for to be in their company filled hearts with a joy they could not fathom.

Ages passed in peace, before the Corruption arrived. The black rot spread slowly, preying on the innocent unsuspecting nurturers, twisting their souls and emerging as an evil vaster than could be borne by the realm. The deeper the pain they caused the deeper was their delight and rarely did they gift the relief that death brought. Oceans were born of the blood they shed of other races and of each other, yet it seemed their malevolence was insatiable. Mutilated was the wilderness that they once so cherished.

Thus to rid the living of this menace were created beings Six, mightier than the destroyers within whose powerful grasp the world threatened to crumble. Their body was shaped from the earth itself, their sinew entwined with that of the strongest metals that slept within. Windstorms blew to fill their lungs, to give them life. Their hearts…

Three hearts were carved of the coldest ice, and Three hearts were fire molded. And so they drew their first breath and the eyes of the mightiest race that ever lived opened in unison. Those that witnessed knew an awe and fear with an intensity such that it seemed would never visit the living again.

from Tale of The World In Many Nutshells by Haephaerium, 4th Historian Elect of Kraedon, 112 years prior to the Great Purge

Part of the prologue of a book in conception

There were places upon this realm that were untouched by time, where memories and prophecy became indistinguishable and mingled like the fine threads of a rich tapestry. Only when those threads were woven into a fabric and lost their identity was the picture they were destined to make evident. In one such place was a lake whose other side was lost to the horizon, and over its waters that were the shade of a stormy twilight sky, was a fog that never dissipated. Upon the shores of this lake was a small dilapidated house, its wood rotting. In this small house were impossibly long corridors and palatial rooms, buried in layers of dust accumulated for each age the house stood defying time.

Through the silence that hung thick upon this house the patter of tiny feet could be heard. The sounds came from a roomy hallway that had an uncountable number of large mirrors on either side, held in frames that were suspended by stands of pure gold. Inscribed upon the frames and stands were a script that could not be recognized by mortals, and though covered by dust, the inscriptions shone through with a dull, bluish light. The maker of this sound was dressed in dusty, torn clothes that were once the finest that could be found, raiment of royalty. The little girl was smeared in dirt. Her face held a serene expression as she held her tattered doll close, her unkempt golden hair flying as she danced with her eyes closed, to a beat only she could hear.

The rhythm to which she danced came from a place that was far from the dusty corridors, the house it was in, and the lake whose shore it was on. It came from the hooves of a magnificent stallion, a remnant of a feral age untainted by the efforts of man to tame the powers of the world he lived in. His muscles rippled underneath his fine coat that was the color of a shadow upon the snow, and to look into his eyes was to know a small part of the True darkness of the First night. He cast no shadow, and left no mark as he ran, but he was more a part of this land than any imprint could ever be. His velvet mane flowed as he stamped the ground, and the music of Kraedon was composed.

The song of Kraedon was born when the land was, each life upon it became a note, lending to a magnificent masterpiece that its composers did not hear, but lived. So the music played, and would play. On that day, however when the day was dead but the night was not yet born, the music stopped. For a moment, all of Kraedon stood still. The eyes of the horse rolled as it skidded to a halt for the first time in its long life. And far away, in the dusty house, the girl stopped to dance, her doll slipping away from loose fingers. Her large eyes filled with dread, joy and sorrow, and with a tiny gasp, she fell to the floor.

In that stillness, rose the wails of eight newborns.