Exodus

Fall of Empire
Approximately 3,800 Years Before the Emrosian Empire

 

Eastern Coast of the Imperial Peninsula

The followers and worshipers of the Emperor of Ash fled their homes, setting off into the unknown ocean waters to the east. The Empire’s once great cities smoldered once more, though this time they would not be rebuilt.

He stood engulfed in flame, facing the seven sorcerers, grinning wildly. He raised his arms to the sky. With a flick of a tall woman’s wrist a mighty wind picked up. The flames wavered and died out. The Emperor’s face twitched as his fingers danced, sparks igniting along his hands.

The bald sorcerer stepped in. The air grew chill. The wind continued. The Emperor of Ash was no fool. He knew his time had run out as the sorcerers closed in. These sorcerers’ power had grown, the bald man barely moved as he willed his power toward the Emperor of Ash. Ice burst forth from the ground, dousing the last bits of flame as it incapsulated the Emperor.

He stood there frozen, watching as the remains of his city crumbled. Soon the ashes would scatter and the cities would be lost to the world. A sea of grass would take their place marked only by crumbling towers and decayed ruins where once stood great cities. But beneath the land would sprawl the catacombs of his greatest achievements. The city even these sorcerers knew not of. He would escape his prison, he would rebuild after all.

“Not this time,” a shrill voice spoke from behind a scarred mask of wood as he approached the Emperor within his tomb of ice.

I could grant you power, greater than any you have known. The Emperor of Ash willed his thoughts to this one. You could become a god.

The masked figure paused a moment. He let forth shrill laughter as he resumed his approach.

“I shall,” he rasped as he reached the Emperor of Ash, raising the black-bladed dagger. A green gem, gripped in the maw of the serpent-like hilt, glistened as the man used it to carve out the heart of the Emperor of Ash.