Chapter 1: Antiark
6617A.O.M.
Approximately 30th day of the New Order incursion.
A circle of ancient trees swayed in The North's ceaseless wind, burdened, yet uncompromising, beneath the undisturbed ice of millennia. Stately firs glowered at the overarching mountains that surrounded the glade of their residence while dominant spruces stretched protective limbs over the shorter rowans and shaded the mingled willows. A wall of stout cypress, eucalyptus and baobabs concealed the trunks of these primordial sentries like a woman's skirt, their grandeur undiminished by their inferior height.
A magnificent sequoia grew from the white lake, reigning proudly as this sanctuary's living heart beneath the Rhawn Mountain's daunting shadow, its graceful limbs also stretched out protectively over its attendants. The implacable northern wind caressed the sequoia's fragile, golden leaves as unblemished snowflakes kissed its alabaster skin.
Older than all other corners of the world, The North disregards the necessity of change. Bleak and overwhelmed by storms capable of shredding men, The North never yields. It stands separate from the Mortal Kingdoms, shielded by the ancient Rhawn.
The North is a land of mysteries and legends, where the laws governing other lands submit more easily than they govern. It is a remnant of the Before Age, and the domain of a creature older than mortal existence: Winsyria. In this, the Third Age, his power is diminished, his influence restricted to The North. Nevertheless, here, Winsyria remains the caretaker of his people, feared and loathed by the Ascended Gods since a time older than reminiscence; and until all creation fails, he will continue to rule The North.
A howl reached down the sheer pass, forewarning of an unusual arrival. The sanctuary stirred in silent welcome, its drowsy soul waking from a century of isolation. Men do not come here often, for the Rhawn are perilous to ascend, and this sanctuary is secreted deep within their highest peaks. Moments passed, and a White Wolf of Winsyria materialized from the lashing winds and eternal blizzard and strolled into the circle of trees. The unearthly canine reached the pond and surveyed the water before settling down to drink, its eyes alive with an unnatural intelligence.
The Wolf remained unperturbed when a second figure materialized from the storm; a man advancing with a hesitant step, his features brooding with the tundra-cold eyes, the pale northern hair, and the imperceptible scars dealt to his skin by his unforgiving homeland.
Mirroring his companion, the deranger scanned the lake, probing through the heavy fog that frolicked across its surface. Although the mist reached out to embrace him, one could still see the bow of rare black rowan hanging across his shoulder beside a quiver of three dozen arrows fletched with the feathers of black swans.
A ripple stroked the abnormally serene water, alerting the deranger that his presence was noted. Chagrined, though no sign of it broke the impassivity of his features, the deranger drew his cowl back, revealing himself to the entity he sought.
He smiled at his foolishness, a rare moment of unveiled humor for him, recollecting that his skill would not conceal him from the man he sought. The deranger, a Ranger-Warden of Winsyria, thus named by the Northern people due to his habitual insanity of braving The North's harshest maelstroms, walked to the lake's bank and knelt beside the Wolf. Closing hazel eyes, he slipped into a half-trance, allowing his mind to relinquish the constraints of his body while he waited. With the air of beginning a ritual, he unsheathed his glass sword and plunged it into the water, returning the blade to the forge of its birth. The true North welcomed him; mists and half-formed shadows swelled in his mind, granting him wordless visions of beauty and solitude that transcended both distance and time.
To an outsider The North was a sinister land encircled by baleful mountains; but to those within those mountains, the land was a haven of solitude and peace.
Immersed in the ancient majesty of his homeland, the deranger lost track of time until something powerful stirred, releasing a cascade of turbulence to forewarn its arrival. The mist receded unveiling another man kneeling, immersed to his breast, at the center of the lake's crystalline waters. The deranger opened his eyes, sensing who he sought. Exhaling to release the trance brought by his communion with the land, he unsheathed the glass sword from the water, its spine shimmering with captured light, the impurities cleansed.
The Rhawn Mountains murmured; their voices a resounding echo that descended from the heavens. The deranger glanced up in response, unnerved by their voice. He did not fear the Rhawn or Winsyria's storms; they were facets of a home he cherished. He respected them unto the verge of terror, but never feared them. It was what they portended that he feared.
The half-immersed man stood, tied back the locks of bronze hair, and strode toward the shore, water streaming down his naked torso over an intricate tapestry of almost indigo tattoos. "Hello, Maern." The High-Warden's voice rumbled, filling the air and the world about him with a graceful cadence that, despite his size, lacked volume. The storm slowed around them, calming at his words.
Maern stood, sheathing the glass sword but hesitating to speak, loath to break the silence again. "The New Order has entered The North, slipping past Adriat under cover of night, battle and enchantments. Some four thousand of them slipped into The North." Maern fell into step, and the White Wolf followed.
"Yes, and they bring demons in their company." The High-Warden shortened his stride, allowing for his companion's shorter step.
Maern glanced at the High-Warden. "The war that Lord Dellak predicted has arrived."
The High-Warden shrugged. "None of us ever doubted his words; we've had time to prepare for this."
Maern nodded beginning to struggle through the fresh snow. In contrast, the High-Warden moved easily, leaving no history of his passage as he guided them deeper into the Rhawn Mountains. Unperturbed by the arduous trek, Maern continued, "Lord Antiark solicits your aid."
"I know, but I cannot aid him. This is a war whose entirety we do not yet fully comprehend." His voice was strained, disfigured by the violence of emotions roiling beneath the surface of his implacable eyes, "More evils than one stride this earth, gathering their might and whispering in shadows while fouler things beyond their knowledge stir. Messages of portentous events rise on dark wings, and the Hounds of Karrassain walk this land anew. In the West, Cardolyn Tyier broods upon his high throne, eyes turned heavenwards." At the mention of Karrassain, a prison for gods and their ilk, Maern's step faltered and the warmth fled his blood. "For the first time in decades, Tiberius Whyte leaves Apelium to converse with the last Avenar Prince while Morrehiegann laughs in his dark tower, gloating over our plight and inner conflicts. Rumors speak in half heard susurrations, echoing a dark resonance; the harbinger of something terrible that has long slumbered. A Dread Lord once more walks the Mortal Kingdoms, and with this messiah's arrival, the curse inflicted upon the Avenar Princes is reawakened to resume the harrowing of their souls."
The High-Warden reached the door of a small cottage and opened it, beckoning both man and Wolf to enter. Eager for warmth, Maern hurried inward. Bending under the high door frame, the High-Warden followed. The Wolf entered last, at ease in the deteriorating weather.
Motioning for Maern to sit in a chair before the fire, the High-Warden walked to the corner of the small house, where his mattress lay, and donned a shirt. Meanwhile, the Wolf claimed the hearthstones with a satisfied huff.
As heat soothed his chill, Maern brooded, uneasy with his lack of knowledge. The North always balanced on war's precipice with the Light and Dark Pantheons ruling the exterior world. Winsyria loathed the gods just as they abhorred him; where he sought solitude, peace and distance, they hungered for dominion. War was coming to The North at Malbreyth's gleeful summons. As Maern's thoughts turned to the God of War, Malbreyth, second Lord of the Dark Pantheon, realization struck. "We are at war." He reiterated his words in stunned apprehension, hitherto having failed to realize what forthcoming events dictated. "The gods will fall on us like crows upon
the dead."
"Yes, the gods will come: Telacra shall ride the backs of her New Order, and Malbreyth will invade as the first drop of human blood falls. Jaidar will enter through the flames and agony as the slightest threads of chaos sunder our unity; and where Jaidar goes, Enecki soon follows."
Maern searched the dancing flames for comfort, watching as they adopted a myriad of shapes and guises. First, there was a solitary wolf running in place and then its brethren joined it, their heads lifted in the ancient lament they had sung since the first dawn, regaling the moon with tales of heroes dead or forgotten.
The High-Warden continued, "Still, it is not the gods I fear. There are many creatures of darkness stirring in their ancient prisons or holds. Too many long dormant entities are awakening and too many guardians are hearing the call to rise. I fear what will be demanded of them."
He took the vacant seat, offering Maern dark bread and cold mutton while a tea kettle whistled over the fire. The High-Warden took a pair of clay mugs from pegs driven into the walls and poured tea into each. Maern accepted a mug, beginning to murmur his gratitude but fell silent when he noticed the cold iron of the High-Warden's eyes. "Too many entities are testing their strength beneath this veil of