Dawn of Empire

 Age of Conquest
The Dawn of the Great Emrosian Empire

 

Emros City

King Keltan stood beneath the moons of the Great Hunt as Ghanray slowly slipped beyond Skelis, avoiding his grasp, and beginning their endless pursuit once more. His hands gripped the battlement of the keep as he looked out over the great western city-state.

“I have seen glimpses of possible futures,” the old seer said, “a great empire shall be born. Spreading between the oceans, embracing all of this land under its banner.”

The Emrosian King turned toward the seer, looking in the gaunt man’s pale eyes. Why should he trust this old wizard?

“Power, King Keltan, and notoriety. Your name will be remembered for ages to come, none shall forget the great Keltan the Conqueror, he who founded the Emrosian Empire.” The seer’s long, white beard fluttered in the breeze as he stared back into Keltan’s eyes. “Of all the possible paths that may be taken, that does not change. You are destined, King Keltan, you cannot shirk destiny.”

Sakri

The Death of Wonder
Approximately 2,400 Years Before the Emrosian Empire

 

Alhu

The great central city burned. Those few survivors dispersed into the surrounding forests hoping to find succor somewhere far from these devastated lands. The charred soil was littered with the corpses of the slain. Alheen and Firlosii warriors, their allies the stout folk of the distant Mountains of Ice, as well as the southern demons.

The trail of the dead led south, a hundred miles of carnage. A swath of destruction carved into the land, leading to the mountains from whence the demons spewed forth.

Deep below the ruined city a dozen figures surrounded another. They each carried their exhaustion plainly.

“Are you sure of this?”

“There is no other option. They must be kept at bay. This power must be controlled. They cannot handle it.”

“Then so be it.”

“I am sorry my friend.”

“It is the only way.”

Sorceries flared from the dozen figures, wrapping about the central figure, his body contorted with pain as he was lifted from the ground. He aged millennia over the course of mere moments. Wisps of light spiraled about the man as he was locked into a timeless prison of agony.

The others turned their backs on him. There had been no other choices. They did as they must. For themselves, for Alhu, for the world.

Othun of the Winds

 Age of the Legends
Approximately 4,000 Years Before the Emrosian Empire

 

Southern Firlos

The gathered warriors assembled near the border with Alhu. The Chieftain of the Drakniir Isles held her axe high, her commands carrying across the winds to all the warriors that followed her. This night their march would begin down through the mountain passes and into the Alheen territories to the central settlement of the Alheen tribes. As the moons waned their march would begin. And when the sky lacked the light of either moon, their battle would begin against the demons of the south.

The woman pointed her axe southward and gave a final roar. A heavy, chill wind blew from the north kicking up colorful autumn leaves in its wake. For the first time the Firlosii clans had united into a singular army against a common threat. The winds of change stirred in the south.

Massive, long horned drakniir pulled heavy wagons of supplies down winding mountain paths as the Firlosii clans began their march to the aid of the Alheen tribes. Quite possibly to the aid of the world.

*************************************

And here's a preview of the map of Firlos (unlabled, just the outline so far)

The Emperor of Ash

 The Age of Kelril
Approximately 5,000 Years Before the Emrosian Empire

 

The Eastern Lands

Rain poured over the expanse of grasslands. Thunder echoed across the land. Heavy black clouds filled the sky, blotting out the light of the moons. Lightning lit the sky above the stone walls surrounding the sprawling City of the Plains. A fire raged at its center, spreading rapidly outward. People ran about in a panic in their desperate attempt to flee.

Atop the largest tower of the city the Emperor of Ash stood, arms raised toward the sky as lightning crackled around him. Flames danced about his fingertips as he cackled maniacally. As he brought down his right hand, gouts of flame burst from the ground below. One building to the north of the city remained untouched. Within its walls, deep below the ground, awaited those of the city the Emperor deemed worthy to survive.

Those that ran through the streets below had earned his wrath. He had built this Empire on the ashes of the previous, doing so again would be but a minor inconvenience.

A lone figure walked the streets below, unhindered by the walls of flame closing in. Their pace was slow and never quickened even as flames licked at the trailing hems of a dark robe. The figure sought the charred remains of those too slow to escape the fire. A dark hand extended in a warding gesture at each corpse. And each corpse withered to dust upon the figure’s passing.

Visions (Prologue 2/2)

1095th Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
Night of the Moon of the Great Hunt (Late Summer)

The Ebon Peaks

The black, stone tower pierced the thick clouds that hung about the Ebon Peaks. Atop the tower’s flat roof, a hatch door flung open. The gaunt, dark-robed man crawled out into the bright moonlight. The moons were full, hanging low in the dark sky. The bright crimson of the Hunter shone around the edges of the Prey’s deep cerulean. The man closed the door beneath him, his white beard fluttering from his cowl in the brisk midnight breeze. He looked to the eclipsing moons, the Moon of the Great Hunt, a rare occurrence indeed. He stood at the center of the tower’s roof, staring toward the moons, arms outstretched, spectral moonlight beaming onto his pale, withered face.

He mumbled to himself, head raised to the sky, as the winds began to swirl. Faster, they continued to gain speed. Faster, swirling about the man. Faster, as they began to form a cyclone. Faster, and the man was lifted from the platform, spinning within the whirlwinds. He closed his eyes, and the visions began, flashing in rapid succession through his mind.

To the northwest, a man on his deathbed. He spun within the winds. Northeast, a boy surviving alone in the forest. His spiraling continued within the storm. Southeast, rebellion. Southwest, death, regrets, revenge, and plotting. The surge of images began to batter his mind more and more rapidly, glimpses of events from anywhere in the world, past, present, and future. Betrayal. An exodus. An old world made anew. A civilization brought to ruin. The scenes were too many, too scattered, too fast to make sense of. The seer’s head began to pound, as if he were drowning in a sea of overwhelming, incomplete bits of information. Not yet, there must be more, I must find a connection, I must make sense of this, any of this. Soldiers, flames, uprisings, a world torn asunder. Blood began to trickle from the man’s clenched eyelids, as his teeth ground at the immense pressure that weighed down on him. Where? A throne, its occupant but a silhouette. A man, crippled in torturous pain, light flowing from his body. Powers the world could neither understand nor handle, seeping away.

The seer came to a sudden halt facing westward. Slowly, the winds dissipated, the man gently lowered back to the stone platform. Eyes still held tightly shut. Tears of blood ran down his ghostly face. The visions slowed now, more concentrated. Glimpses of the past, hints at the future. There was something important in all of this. Ah, but what is it? And what is the link?

Opening his eyes, he clutched his dark, grey robes and slowly stepped forward toward the western edge of the tower. He concentrated, envisioning a dark room. Within, a round wooden table surrounded by eleven high-backed chairs. A moment’s hesitation and the old man stepped forward off the edge of the tower, plummeting into the mass of clouds towards the rugged mountain below. The black clouds engulfed him.