Gahran Winarr
Thousand year old ship: Muhreim
Weltharas continent (east)
Valley of Dareth
Five days before the destruction of Aravan island
Seven years before Gahran Winarr entered the valley of Dareth:
Battle of Hanmer
The smoke did not rise; it curdled, thick with the grease of the fallen, clinging to the back of my throat like ash. I crawled through the mire, my fingers slipping on slick armor and shattered bone, just trying to find a patch of earth that wasn't bleeding.
We thought we won. We were smiling through our helms, thinking that we were indeed victorious. The new God had done his part, indeed making us free from the tyrant that would smile upon us like a catastrophe. The new god, his name still unknown to many, was the strongest on the battlefield. I saw him, countless times, flying over knights. Catching spears mid-air and directing them towards the holy elvents of the tyrant God. One of them charged at me and I froze; my hands shaking, I shouted and my sword, heavy and useless, slipped from my grimy fingers. Then, he came, the God we entrusted our lives with. He had his sword unsheathed, and with a strong swing in the air, he tore open the thick armor of an elvent.
The elvent staggered back, his eyes searching for his own God. The tyrant god was nowhere to be seen. The armor of the elvent was extremely intricate: the plate he wore was an affront to the pale, weeping sky, a heavy shell of blackened iron that seemed to drink what little light remained in the battlefield. It was not the clean, unblemished work of a high-born smith, but armor that had survived the crushing pressure of elder wars in the High Seats of Marlyin. The pauldrons were thick, layered like the segmented carapace of some prehistoric beast, etched with deep, winding filigree that had long since filled with grease, grit, and the oxidized residue of old blood. Every plate and couter bore the faint, textured scarring of deflecting blows that would have sheared a lesser man in two, yet the fit was seamless, silent, moving with the terrifying fluid grace of a predator that had forgotten how to stumble. A vast cloak of heavy, weave-worn wool trailed behind him, dark as a starless warren, absorbing the damp mist rising from the stone.
Beneath the deep shadow of the hood, there was only a void, save for the low, shifting radiance bleeding upward from the blade in his grip.
The sword was an ancient, brutal thing, forged long before the current empires had names. It was a greatsword, yet it seemed weighted perfectly for his gauntleted hand, held with a casual, negligent malice. The crossguard was a tangled, organic sprawl of dark metal, twisting like thorny briars around a grip wrapped in cracked, weathered leather. But it was the blade itself that drew the eye and held it with a sickening fascination. It did not shine; it burned from within. A jagged, molten seam ran the length of the fuller, a crack in the iron through which a low, pulsing amber light bled. It was the color of dying stars, a smoldering, suffocating heat that didn't cast warmth, but rather hissed against the damp mountain air. The edges of the steel were impossibly sharp, yet pitted, carrying the weight of countless severed lives; a weapon that had tasted the blood of gods and mortals alike and now hummed with a quiet, insatiable hunger.
The Elvent smiled and lunged for a swing; the air shimmered and coalesced. Five long spears circled our new God. He spun and deflected all, suddenly attacking the elvent, catching him off guard. The New God jabbed one of the spears through his helmet; twisting, he immediately used his sword to press further. Squelch sounds and a mass of gore splattered throughout the battlefield.
The elvent staggered, his armor groaning under the sudden shift in weight as the spear remained lodged in his visor. Seizing the momentum, the New God pivoted on his heel, his cloak flaring out like a shadow across the mud. He brought his greatsword downward in a brutal, sweeping arc, aiming to sever the elvent at the hip. The elvent, acting on pure warrior instinct, caught the descending edge with the crossguard of his own amber-lit blade. The collision rang out like a thunderclap, sending a shower of orange sparks hissed into the damp mist.
For a breathless second, the two titans locked blades, the smoldering heat of the elvent's sword singing the New God's armor. Then, with a subtle twist of his wrists, the New God disengaged, allowing the elvent's weapon to slide harmlessly past. Using the creature's own forward momentum against him, the New God delivered a crushing palm strike directly to the lodged spearhead, driving the iron deeper into the skull before ripping his own blade free for the final, decisive strike.
"That was the final elvent," said he, the savior we never anticipated would come and would free us from this predicament.
"Listen up, everyone. The tyrant God is dead!"
His voice was thin yet soothing, like a song I wish would never end. He wore just armor; no helm, no gorget, and no vambraces. Just simple armor covering his slender body and his curled-up black hair that flowed around his eyes, which changed colors like a chameleon. Sharpness in his disposition, his sword presented the same. A white, radiant sword that shone even in the darkest depths of the battlefield.
He lowered the blade, and the brilliant white light reflecting off the steel seemed to push the curdling smoke away from our huddle of wounded men. Nobody spoke. The silence that followed his words was heavy, almost suffocating, as if our minds couldn't truly grasp the concept of an empty sky. For twelve years, the tyrant's shadow had been our only certainty, and now, this unhelmed deity was telling us it was gone.
Slowly, the God pushed himself up from the mire, his hands still trembling against his slick, ruined breastplate. Around him, other soldiers began to stir, looking at each other through the cracked visors of their helms with a mixture of disbelief and sudden, overwhelming exhaustion. The New God simply stood there, his chameleon eyes shifting from a fierce amber to a calm, deep sea-blue as he watched his new followers finally drop their weapons into the mud.
I remembered the morning, overwhelmed with the memory of battle. Swords had flashed in the sun, ringing out as they struck armor. There was no room for fancy footwork. It was a brutal, hacking mess. Men thrust blades into the gaps in helmets, hacked at legs beneath shield rims, and used their pommels to smash faces. When a man fell, he was trampled instantly by friends and enemies alike.
The front lines had crashed together with a deafening roar of wood splintering and iron slamming into iron. Shield met shield. Men screamed, shoved forward by the weight of thousands of boots behind them, turning the grass into a swamp of slick mud.
The blood... it was too much, splattered everywhere: on pommels and shields, on faces and swords. Everywhere I looked, blood cloaked the entire land of Hanmer.
To the north stood a fortress with three towers. One tower was slender; another, parallel to it, stood encased in thick walls. The third stood several paces away, its windows and statues covered in frost like white snow decorating its entire length.
The Tri-Fort Kingdom, it was called. Home to a demon army, and home to a god deeply entrenched in tyranny and belligerence.
The three-eyed demon, or even a four-armed demon clutching tridents in all his hands. Our new god faced every creature with valiance. One shout, three shouts, even a thousand shouts did not bother him.
He kept fighting, fighting like a relentless god who had forgotten his divinity and instead found himself entranced by the revelry of bloodshed, or by the feeling of a sword entering a man's heart. He was still fighting, not with a sword, but within himself.
His eyes assured us that everything was alright, but his quivering lips and blood-slicked hands, clutching the sword with the tremor of an old man, betrayed his facade. Betrayed the trust that the Tyrant God was dead. The trust that we were going to become kings of our own hovels. The trust that we would finally partake in the revelry we had only ever witnessed from the outside, never able to join.
"Listen, all of you! You people should—"
Then came a bolt of lightning that shook the very foundations of the earth. The air rippled as though the weather itself had betrayed its natural flow. The ground thundered like a gong, stones and mud flying everywhere, dancing like beetles through the air.
The bodies of the already dead soldiers shook once more, not with life, but with impact. So powerful was that bolt.
No one saw the new god, nor who had thrown that lightning bolt. Everyone ran like men summoned to a congregation. They shouted the names of their mothers, sisters, and wives, the nightmare too much for them to endure.
Clutching their swords, some knights still held their ground. Bending one knee, I too prepared myself to fight.
Fight... once more.
The god's voice resounded across the battlefield. The muffled cries of knights and the neighing of horses merged into a shrill chorus, a crescendo of death. Ahead, knights and horses fell alike; in that moment, one could scarcely distinguish man from beast.
As everything gradually, yet catastrophically, returned to normal—another bolt. This one louder than steel grinding against the rim of a shield. The blast intensified as it smote the three hills in the west overlooking an island to the south.
The moment the bolt landed, several thousand smaller bolts erupted from it, pulverizing countless knights, no matter how heavily equipped or ostentatious their armour was. The lightning held no mercy for them. Skin burned, limbs were torn apart, and severed hands, bisected bodies, and scattered eyes embellished the battlefield with a fresh sheet of blood.
The divine thunderbolt did not stop there.
It bombarded the land of Hanmer until cracks and fissures marked the earth like a segregated map. It devoured everything in its path; horses galloped straight into its maw. The ground split apart with a deafening tear where knights once stood, or where some had tried to flee from the brutality of it all. Away from the chains that shackled their resolve. Their minds oscillating between running like cowards or dying in a losing battle.
I too ran, toward god, toward hope.
Eyes closed, his sword of light raised skyward, he smiled. A spell, perhaps. Or a summoning. Just then, from the corner of my eye, I saw something. When I squinted, it vanished.
The god still smiled, like a child discovering a new toy.
"We are safe!" bellowed our god as he looked toward the bolt still crackling through the air.
Then every sword, every shield, every spear, scimitar, and weapon upon that battlefield flew upward. Like ravens, the weapons circled endlessly above us. Every sword was ripped from the knights' hands except my own.
I heard the cries around me:
The god is protecting us.
A miracle.
Look, we are going to be alright.
The thunderous bolt that had pursued us so ferociously now faced an opponent in the form of a shield. Swords, spears, and shields fused together into a misshapen barrier that looked like the creation of some devil who had fallen asleep while building a wall for his kingdom.
"Just enemies on the battlefield. Focus only on them!" said our saviour, who once again had saved us.
He searched the battlefield before locking eyes with me.
"You there. Come on. You and me, we still have a lot of fight left in us."
I nodded and grabbed a spear. Longsword in my right hand and spear in my left, I charged across the battlefield. To my right came a shimmering blast of sorcery. I dodged, and it struck another knight square in the chest, searing his flesh into something that resembled a festering wound more than skin.
Waves of thunderous sorcery crashed everywhere. Necromancy intertwined with aeromancy, thickening the air with a pungent stench of rot and burning flesh. Smoke and dust wafted across the battlefield, soft as clouds yet dense as abandoned armour scattered haphazardly upon the blood-soaked earth.
Two demons came at me, their skin ash-white and their grotesque spears jagged like broken bones. I dodged the first strike, but the second scraped across the back of my shoulder, tearing flesh alongside armour. Both demons smiled.
Blindly, I hurled my spear toward them. They leapt aside and the weapon landed several paces away, clattering against stone. Distracted, their eyes followed the spear for only a heartbeat.
That heartbeat was enough.
I lunged forward and swung my sword in a wide arc, cleaving one demon's head clean from its neck. Black blood erupted from the stump as the corpse staggered several steps before collapsing.
The other shrieked and hurled his spear at me with monstrous force. Panic seized me. I tried to catch the weapon, but its immense weight drove me backward and sent me crashing onto the ground.
The demon laughed.
It was upon me within seconds, clawing at the spear still trapped in my grasp. We struggled in the mud and blood for what felt like an eternity. Its rancid breath washed over my face while its claws tore against my armour.
Then my sword found the gap beneath its leather cuirass.The blade pierced deep. Its howls sounded less like rage and more like a desperate attempt to weep. I pushed harder. The point of the sword rose through its throat and into its mouth, silencing the creature with a wet crack as blood poured over my hands.
I stood and scanned the battlefield. Aeromancy burst through the air in small blasts like catapults hurling invisible stones. Necromancy withered knights where they stood, shrivelling skin and leaving jaws hanging loose with drool.
I saw our god punch the earth. The impact shook the battlefield, reminiscent of a landslide, or an avalanche of boulders crashing down a mountain.
Amidst this bone-cracking, blood-shattering battle, I finally saw him.
Our torturer.
He stood upon piles of bodies. Hundreds of corpses stacked atop one another to form a grotesque hill. Swords and spears twisted through necks, guts, and ribcages alike.
Yet he simply stood there.
Thick plates of steel covered him from head to heel, his enormous frame matched only by the massive two-handed hammer resting at his side. In his right hand flew a crimson banner, snapping through the air like a sail caught in a storm.
Arrows rained toward him, yet he remained unmoving, unflinching, like one of the towers of his kingdom. He did not budge.
Three more Elvents joined him, and he raised the banner higher still. Higher and higher.
One knight saw him and charged forward, hoping to end the battle with a single swing of his sword. One of the Elvents laughed and leapt from the mound of corpses. He fanned his blade outward, putting the full weight of his strength behind the strike.
The knight was cut clean in half.
Every knight present took a step back. Even our god's eye twitched ever so slightly.
But the Tyrant God...
He still did not move.
The world of sumaka through eyes of the Tyrant God:
Son of Hanmer, I was born a god. I never needed the power of a tomb. The blood of Elder Gods flows through my veins. Elder sorcery, fused with new strokes of magic, crowns my very demeanour.
No one can kill me. I am immortal. Even if some new god entombs me, I will return with greater power.
I built the largest dungeon. I sit upon the highest seat, and I am the only god capable of procreation, the only one able to sire divine children. My power is pure. The only discrepancy is... my mother.