Chronicles of Domaria - Book I – The Awakening

In Elensil, the Star of the Forest, that was a special night. The elvish city was garnished with lights and colors, over the branches and leaves of the ancient trees. An eclipse also marked that date on the city’s calendar. It was the first convergence in millennia. The commemorative date symbolized the imprisonment of great darkness by Eorlund, the elven deity of light, according to their belief.

Many kingdoms saw the eclipse as a bad omen. Some cited ancient prophecies and believed in a period of shortage after the event. The elves, supporters of nature and astronomy, viewed the night as a big event, worthy of contemplation. There were rumors that some groups would meet secretly to develop rituals of worship and magic. It was quite possible: the Treaty of Domaria was not very strict in the sacred forests.

The control of magic was a problem over there for centuries. The elves never accepted to put aside their main knowledge with the Treaty. Some of they believe that magic was a natural gift that should never have been dominated by other peoples. It was rare to observe people using magic in the middle of the great Elensil and on its tracks. Its residents cultivated a respect for the magic art that was taught since they were kids. However, where there is power, there is always abuse.

The Council of Seven Leaves was formed by powerful figures of the Kingdom, which administered and decided the direction of the big city. However, their discussions were not always peaceful: the rise of radicalism had become worrisome. Over the years, the Group began to be taken by figures who advocated full sovereignty from the woodland realm. One of the constant topics was the repeal of the Treaty of Domaria.

Elensil definitely wasn’t in its best moments. Its greatest glories certainly referred to past times, where magic was free. Currently, it was constantly threatened by barbaric invasions to the North, through the Highlands of Eth, in addition to the growing dangers in the black forest to the East.

Aggravating the situation, their lands were declining in productivity and fertility during the recent years. The earth was going sick. The growth of the eastern part of the Woods, wild and rugged, was threatening to swallow the secular city. The need for survival stimulated the radicalism, which preached the return to the old days through the unrestricted use of magic to defense and growth of the city.

Despite the difficulties, the night was of celebration in the village. Many took their seats in the balconies of the houses, built on top of the gigantic trees. The spiral stairs within the big trunks were unusually busy. Towers and clearings in the woods were also seized to observe the eclipse. The smell of natulas, a delicious mushroom soup with chicken and elvish bread, filled the air of the forest, making everyone anxious for a special dinner event. The children outside were playing, laughing and having fun.

A slight tremor shook some cutlery and cups of mead in an old wooden table. It would have gone unnoticed, if it wasn’t accompanied by a great noise, like a big tree falling, the screaming and the sound of people running from the northern part of the woods, where the farms were.

- By Eorlund! What is this?! - shouted a citizen, eager to find aid.

The mess appeared to come from the old property of Finus, who cultivated herbs and mushrooms. The Elven Guard rushed, playing the emergency horns.

- Damn! More barbarians to expel! - thought Leanor.

Leanor was one of the most famous archers of Elensil. Tall, thin, tapered features, long and blond hair, almost white, and piercing green eyes. Full of courage, the Elf, a member of the elite guard and natural hunter, was eager for adventure. The young man went over and checked: a large and grotesque creature was razing the trees and a part of the old farmer’s House. It was a Wyvern.

The winged creature was similar to a large reptile, with a massive tail and a sharp sting. Its venom was deadly even for large creatures like cows or another wyvern. Surprisingly, it was very unusual that that creature invaded a colonized forest to hunt or attack. Scouts and adventurers typically saw such specimens in the Mountains of Desolation, to the East, after the Black Forest, where the biome was quite aggressive.

It was too dark for a direct confrontation. There were only the shadows formed by moonlight and the farmer’s house dim lights. The creature, furious, shook its tail and destroyed the balcony of the house, taking down the lamps that were lit. Screams came from inside the house.

- Help! -shouted Finus’s wife.

The beast size was higher than the house of the man. The kerosene poured by the lamps ignited, feeding the fire that began to consume the wooden façade of the House.

Leanor crouched atop one of the trees, alone, sensing the danger around farmer family. He chose not to await the arrival of reinforcements, and impetuously prepared an arrow aiming at the head of the beast. The target was moving, and it was dark.

-Be quiet, you monstrous lizard. – whispered the Archer.

The elf shot and hit the creature’s neck, calling its attention. Enraged, the creature ran towards him through the farm, partially illuminated by the flames in the house. Finus took advantage of the distraction of the beast and ran with his wife and two small children to the side door of his house, partially broken.

Horns were soon played in the middle of the forest. The guard was coming. However, Leanor still needed to wait a bit longer. Alone, he would not be a match for the monster.

With cunning and dexterity, he launched a hook to one of the branches of a tree at his side. The ranger jumped and swung between them. At the same time, with a flick of the tail, the beast hit the tree, causing it to tumble and unearth its roots.

Another arrow was fired by the elf, penetrating between its scales, in the chest. The creature suffered in a shrill squealing. The arrows were not sufficient to put the beast down; it only made it angrier. In a movement of the wings, the wyvern created a great gale which swept the tree where the archer was. Many leaves and small twigs were dragged off with the strength of the wind.

The Warrior tried to find some balance, but he fell. He tried to soften the misfortune rolling across the floor of the forest, but the drop made him feel the pain.

At that moment, a hail of arrows was fired from the middle of the Woods. Through the trees, they came from different places, surrounding the vile beast.

- The cavalry has arrived! - he thought, bringing the hands to the ribs and hiding.

Some projectiles hit the animal, punching through its young scales with elven steel. The animal shook and grunted. Leanor drew his short sword, lit by a magic blue aura in the darkness and, in a moment of madness, got up and ran. It would be the final blow in the winged monster.

He jumped towards the chest of the beast, wielding the sword. The creature, in defense, shook its wings, hitting him. Leanor was thrown against a tree, frustrating his attack. The impact was cushioned by its silver mesh, but the ranger fell stunned.

- Ouch. I’m in trouble - he thought.

More arrows were fired by the guard. Some hit the beast. The horns playing louder and stronger also scared the animal. By a miracle, the beast, bothered with all those attacks and the noise, shook its wings intending to leave the place. A lot of leaves and dust were raised from the floor. It jumped and flew clumsily, in great pain from her injuries.

- Damn! It ran away. – claimed the Elf, still on the floor, with the bones aching and sore muscles.

- Bravo, Leanor! Your stupidity will cost you your life one day - said Ariel, the captain of the elven guard, who was there in person to end the creature.

The man was also skinny and tall, rather like the young archer. He had some experience and older features and held a slightly curved blade, made from a shiny silver metal. His armor was of the same material, decorated by green silk dress and chic leather, finely embroidered with silver wires.

The commander held out Leanor’s hand, helping him rise. The archer stood up in a lot of pain, even trying not to appear.

- A wyvern. No one will believe it! That head was going to be a great trophy in my room! – spoke the Elf.

Ariel reached out his hands to the sky and began to mumble words in elvish language. At the same time, some dark clouds formed and poured a thick rain on the fire, which went out quickly.

- Come on! I don’t think we’re going to be able to view the eclipse from here - said the captain.

The warriors retreated with the rain falling on their shoulders. Among some clouds, the eclipse had already begun and was hiding a part of the moon. The effect of a reddish shade did what some called “Blood Moon”. Bad luck, big feast or the end of an era, it depends on the culture and the beliefs.

The guards played one more time the horns, signaling the end of the danger to the locals. Other onlookers were around, scared, looking at the heroes walk hurriedly towards the Elven Council, amidst trees and huts of forest city.

The party disbanded. The initiative was successful and the most excited celebrated. However, the animation and happiness shared space with mistrust and buzz.

- Have you seen the size of that beast? – said one of the curious bystanders.

- It looked like a dragon whelp! For centuries we haven’t spotted something like this! - replied another avid citizen.

Many there had never seen such a monstrosity. Rumors were running through the city especially from the mouth of the witness of the appearance and size of the terrifying creature. The clouds dissipated over the Finus House as the fire was extinguished. It just gave off the lightly scented aroma of the burned pine wood.

*

The beating of the drums was loud and intense to the Northwest. Outside of the Great Forest, in the cold Highlands of Eth, there were tribal dances and a lot of shouting. The beer was spilled in the earth, punished by the cold, and a big bonfire, surrounded by people in ceremonial clothes marked a celebration. However, this was quite different. The brawls, demonstrations of strength, spits on the ground, and other savageries contrasted with politeness, organization and elvish education.

Barbarians. Wild humans, lawless, who chose the nomadic life and have evolved greatly in strength and survival, considering the risks and dangers of their daily lives. There was no treaty and alliance with other peoples. Their law was anarchy and chaos.

A different man lived among them. Altair was found by Kalyndra, a young girl currently the matriarch of the barbarians, in a basket, on the edge of a frozen creek. Since then, he was raised in the tribe and celebrated as the realization of a legend. They protected and treated him with reverence. Despite his strong constitution and rudeness, his habits differed from the others barbarians.

Altair’s skin was more reddish, he had shaved head and a braid at the back of the head. He was muscular and had a long beard ending in two braids, each one on a side of his jaw. The warrior carried a pendant, a war hammer and a round and worn wooden shield, with drawn symbols. Dressed as his compatriots, the barbarian covered himself with fur and a leather armor of the wild animals that he hunted.

Also, there was something special that night. The celebration was not for Eorlund, the Elven God. The barbarians sang and danced in the presence of Kalyndra, who sat in a rustic throne in front of the big fire. She was contemplating a giant egg whose surface was so hard and rough that it looked like a big rock. The egg was placed over the burning coals, while the northern night got colder.

There were some shamans on the barbarian tribe, but most of them did not have magical powers. They were only priests and healers who dressed exotically and prophesied after ingesting herbal infusions. They also led the rites of sacrifice when they captured some enemy. They offered their blood to the land, believing that it gave them abundance and prosperity.

Two of them held a large stone tablet with written runes. A third priest raised his hand, demanding that the drums stopped making that noise. The order and the command were not very common among the barbarians, but they obeyed the priests and their matriarch blindly. It was a tribal respect, something that should be preserved through generations. The dancing stopped and all turned toward the fire, some prostrating. In an instant, the shaman read the content of the sign, written in primitive language:

“...In a night of Blood Moon - the womb of nature will break - Returning to the world the beast - that will mark the end of an era…”

Translucent clouds were passing in front of the Moon, which seemed huge at that night. The stars and the clouds around glowed in a reddish color as it had never been seen. The phenomenon of nature was contemplated by the tribe, in a rare silence in the barbarian lands.

The great egg began to fissure, imitating the crackling of wood on the fire. In the sky, the eclipse had come to its peak, bringing the dark reddish glow into the snow-covered plains. As the cracks were increasing, the egg moved and fell over the coals. Kalyndra, the first to view it, stood amazed.

The matriarch, for a moment, seemed not to have faith in prophecy, but there it was: a scream, acute and strong drew everyone’s attention. It was a red dragon whelp. He whiffed and waved his small wings, dragging over the embers, which seemed to comfort him. He coughed, spewing flames in the dry grass, igniting it, trying to purge the amniotic fluid that still bothered his lungs.

The screaming spread all over the village. Many hailed, and drank in celebration of the completion of the prophecy. The drums played even higher. Some tried to approach to see the creature more closely, scared. Other whisked up pieces of bones and meat on the ground where the tottering creature gave its first steps. The whelp, starved, fed with voracity.

Altair rose up, leaning on his hammer, without changing his serious face. He approached the creature, making room among the barbarians and extended his hand. Although small, the creature amazed those who were there, causing them to maintain a reasonably safe distance. They never had seen a dragon throughout their life. It was just a matter of tales and legends, passed from generation to generation.

Up! - said the Warrior.

The creature hesitantly sniffed it with the long neck. It looked at him with affection and came suddenly, climbing and perching on his shoulder. Many wowed in a sound of astonishment and surprise, while others simply went quiet. The little dragon emitted another scream and the barbarians screamed and celebrated, welcoming Altair, which paraded through the crowd with a happy countenance, accompanied by the creature.

There was only one who didn’t seem too happy. Altair’s fierce rival: Duhr. The two were the greatest warriors of the tribe. The great fighter, with the body marked by scars, looked at them with envy and disdain. The matriarch, who was watching him intently, realized the bad intentions of the warrior, which bowed his head and withdrew.

- The time has come - whispered the leader - The gods will decide our fate.

*

Orcs. This was the only problem which the kingdoms never got off. Even after the great Pilgrimage, they continued to exist and, at one time or another, promoted looting, disorder and destruction. Unintelligent, generally they were too disorganized to be a real threat to the capital. However, something had changed in recent years. The attacks to the south of Eldania and Thelrim had increased in frequency and volume. Some even said that they had taken the Valley of Bones, to the further West, becoming a big problem to other inhabitants of the wilderness.

Many rumors surrounded the attacks. The steel, the archery and the armor of the wild warriors were improved. Their strength and technique had increased, including using siege weapons and fire. Some even talked about magic. The orcs even learned to tame some wild animals, increasing the brutality of their attacks. Some scholars began to wonder: how do those stupid evolve so quickly, in such a short time?

The city of Syrma was the stronghold of the Alliance to the South. All the cities had a special fortification mainly because of the frequent orkish attacks. The fortress was built on the top of a hill, and its walls formed several layers, like an onion up to the top where the city is. The view was also privileged: with the light of day, or the full moon, the Syrmanians envision a part of the Swamps to the South, and to the West, the Roaring Range and the Iron Mountains, home of the dwarves.

A great lighthouse functioned in the city. Inside it there was a giant rotating mirror that reflected the light of a big tank of oil that burned during the night. The reflection lit the area a few miles away and was a precaution against larger groups of creatures who wished to attack the city. It isn’t a perfect alarm, but it helped stop groups of raiders and robbers during the night. Also, a guard stood from the top of the city, with a sentinel holding a spotting scope, and a gigantic horn to signal danger.

The night was perfect for the orcs. The blood-red Moon drew a macabre scenario by the creeping fog and wild vegetation of marshes in the South. The weak light of the mirror couldn’t penetrate the dense fog that night. It was the ideal hideaway. They preferred to attack when the defenses were still low and humans were still sleeping. Even the guard was dozing in his post, due to the tedious nights without occurrences.

The orcs were escorted by wargs, creatures that looked like wild dogs. As well as horses, the creatures had saddles and harness, but were much more frightening. They had a long, gray or black fur, and their red eyes glowed in the dark. The beasts were fast, brutal and rarely left survivors. Everything and everyone was food for them, and sometimes it wasn’t enough.

Hundreds of orkish savages sneaked through the heavy fog, ready for the attack. They brought some large wooden gadgets with wheels. They were used to throw some large rustic vases that produced a smelly and toxic substance. There were catapults, hooks, ladders, and an old cannon, which seemed to have been stolen from a great old galleon.

Ahead of them was Gor’gul, the chieftain of the creatures. His stature and size impressed even for an orc. Giant, he had rough and reddish skin as an imp, and his features were horrendous. He had a blind eye, with a large scar on his face. Other battle scars bruised his arms and chest, under a black leather armor, skinned from a fierce and rare creature. Tales say that his vision had been taken in the battle against this mysterious creature.

The darkness began to abandon the silhouette of the Moon, when the creatures carefully placed the ladders in the first wall of the hill. The dense mist mysteriously seemed to accompany them, as if it were invoked by some evil spell. Invisible to the lookout and Syrma lighthouse, the creatures had reached the base of the South Fortress.

In an outburst, several flares flew toward the upper walls, emerging from the fog still reddened by the blood moon. These were the vases, shot by orkish jalopies. During the flight, the smoking substance ignited and crashed with power on the upper walls, causing multiple explosions. The noise and flashes woke up the tower sentinel. Scared, he left the scope and rushed to blow the horn. The severe alert sound echoed throughout the extension of the South Plains and Syrma.

- Orcs! We’re being attacked! - He shouted from the top of the tower.

Flustered, the guard tried to stop the rotating mirror and point it in the direction of the explosions.

The soldiers were late. They ran out of their beds in the barracks, wearing their chain mail and picking up the bows and swords. Part of the city walls, hit by flaming vases, was burning with the viscous substance. A giant battering ram was positioned in the front of the great gate on the lower level of the hill and was prompt to attack.

The men, still sleepy, rushed to the quarters and the archers were placed near the walls of the top. Navi, the commander of the guard, finished dressing their battle armor and railed:

- At my command, archers! Infantry in line!

The commander had shoulder-length black hair, thin goatee and Moorish features, as Moorish as the color of his skin. His firmness and leadership in battle was unquestionable and certainly he was one of the best commanders of the allied kingdoms of Eldania.

The soldiers advanced still disorderly when the lower gate fell. The solid wood was no match for some blows of giant iron horns and some dozens of orcs. Viewing the raiders advance through the lower level walls, Navi shouted out:

- Now! Shoot!

A cascade of flaming arrows lit the night as hundreds of shooting stars. Many of them hit the orcs, but they weren’t sufficient to contain that monstrous troupe, which was advancing quickly up the hill, through the trails surrounded by walls.

- Aim at the front line! – cried the captain, noting that the infantry has already descended and approached the invaders.

The battle’s cries and the clanging of metal echoed in the dark of the night. The infantry was in advantage due to its strategic positioning, avoiding a direct battle with the hundreds of orcs. However, the enemies had a refined night vision. They fought almost as if they were in daylight.

- Shoot! - shouted again the Commander.

Another hail of arrows of fire ripped the night, from the top of the hill. The wounded wargs frenzied in anger, jumping straight on the syrmanian infantry. The damage was great. Seeing that the beasts had started to dominate the line of soldiers, Gor’gul let out a roar, commanding the remaining beasts to trample through the narrow passage of the mount’s ascent.

More soldiers lined up and down to protect the city, which was in serious trouble. Women, children and elderly people were evacuated to the basements and tunnels of the fortress, intending to scape to the north. The fog gradually dispersed, showing the outlines of the invading armies, lit torches and other siege weapons that were positioned in the distance. Loads of fireballs and stones were ready to shoot in the city catapults, setting a counterattack.

- Damn! Go back to the hell where you came! - shouted Navi.

After the command, the bolides ripped the air with violence. They fell with great brutality and destroyed some enemy siege weapons and took the life of a dozen creatures. Despite the brutal response from the humans, it was only a palliative. Orkish forces gathered as never seen before and advanced amidst the damaged walls. The warriors fought bravely, but they needed urgent reinforcements. Syrma infantry was numerically lower than the monstrous army, and only a small part of it held the gates from the top of the fortress. There was only one alternative.

The city had a trap, designed to take advantage of its geography and unusual engineering: The Rock. A large polished stone sphere that could be dropped through a gate on the side of the fortress. The bolide, rolling up to the lower levels guided by the slope of the hill and by the city walls, crushes everything in its way. It was not a very elegant solution, just pure brute force. However, like a double-edged blade, the rock could be the salvation or damnation, leaving the city more unprotected. The progress of the second wave of orkish troops was evident. Navi didn’t think twice: his scream echoed in the chaos and rush of the city:

- Release the Rock!

From the top of the tower, the guard blew the Horn intermittently, signaling the release of the trap. The portico in the stronghold lateral opened slowly, while the orcs ran innocently through the path surrounded by walls. A noise like thunder was heard when the stone, weighing hundreds of tons, fell from the platform directly on the exit ramp.

The bolide started rolling in front of the main gate of the city, causing a deafening roar and shaking the ground. The enormous weight started the bloodlust move: slow and deadly. The stone conquered the descent of the mountain like an unstoppable force.

The orcs, frantic, even gave attention to the strange noise. Feeling the earth shake, some hesitated, but they were intimidated by the captain to continue in a forced march. In a few seconds, the rock emerged with speed in a curve right in front of wildlings. Scared, some tried to hide and flee, but even those were crushed.

The rock continued its path, killing dozens and dozens of creatures. The soldiers and archers, who saw that carnage, celebrated the success of the trap.

But not everything went so well. At great speed, the rock came through a side section of the wall weakened by the fire. As a large wrecking ball, the rock destroyed the barrier, throwing fire and debris downhill. The noise was like an avalanche. The rock slipped over the side of the hill and stopped in the mount’s base without hurting anyone else.

For the first time since the battle started there was silence. The two sides looked perplexed.

In a second later, an animal roar of Gor’gul ripped through the night, encouraging the orkish troops:

- Attack, scumbags! - he shouted.

The crowd went wild, invading the narrow passage of the ascent of Mount. Navi felt they lost the battle. It was time to hold the city gates as much as possible for the evacuation. Many ran through the tunnels, listening to the roar of the horn on the top of the tower.

- Gentlemen, we must resist! Tonight, we will fight for our homes, our families and our children! We can’t let Syrma fall for those filthy pigs! - he shouted, lifting his sword and ripping off screams and roars of the men in arms.

Saif, Lord of Syrma, joined the crowd. It was an old man and honorable knight that defended the Kingdom for many decades. He insisted on wearing his old armor to protect the city he ruled: a lightly golden chain mail with a few plates and no helmet, just his sword and shield. He knew it was a crucial moment and he needed to resist. Among the men with honor, he was one of them.

- Father! I don’t think it’s appropriate… -said Navi, his son and loyal commander

- Son, I lived many years in defending us. If I have to die, I’ll die defending our land and our family – replied wistfully Saif. - Blood and honor! - he shouted.

Navi noticed the sadness in the eyes of his old man. He thought that might be the last time with his father. He hugged him briefly before turning his back and leading the archers and other soldiers to position in the entrance walls of Syrma:

- Warriors, hold your ground! This scum will pay for coming up to our mountain tonight! – cried the youngster, again accompanied by the shout of his warriors.

The wild Horde had reached the top. Navi, from the top of the entrance tower, saw the savages running through the last wall. He commanded a great hail of arrows that dropped a lot of them. However, many still progressed with the body covered with mud and sticking shots. The orcs made a great wave that slammed into the gate, forcing it and trying to break it.

- Hold on, men! - shouted Navi, commanding his soldiers to resist with the help of a barricade made of wood and metals.

A second row of Syrmanians were preparing for invasion, positioning lancers behind the barricade. The archers were shooting off the walls, but it was ineffective. It looked like a large ant hill after being agitated. Dozens of orcs appeared from behind and took the place of those who fell in the front. A sound of an enemy horn echoed outside, near the gate, drawing the attention of Navi. The captain struggled through their archers and saw a large cannon, ending around the last wall and pointing towards the gate.

- Cannon! Run! - shouted Navi, observing the panic of several that accompanied him on top of the wall.

It was too late. A deafening burst echoed in battle. The orcs fired brutally. Two large iron balls attached to a chain turned in the air towards the gate of the citadel, which was in shambles. The deadly shot killed several orcs and, on the other side, many soldiers holding the gate. Even with the ears ringing, Navi went running down the walls to support the battle.

The orcs had invaded the city, which no longer had its greatest protection. The fragile guard fell before the combination of ruthlessness and brutality of the attacks. In that bloody and chaotic scenario, Navi still managed to shoot some wildlings, but it was too late. When he looked back, he saw his old father dueling against Gor’gul, who overcame his defenses with the brutality of the blows of a large sledgehammer. Thrown to the ground, without shield or sword, Saif was trapped between the orc and a wall of a house.

Navi shouted and ran toward the back of the executioner. Inattentive, he was hit in the head by a blow and fell unconscious. The last thing he saw was the expression of his father, while the savage stood his hammer for the final blow. Saif’s fate had been sealed. The last soldiers of Syrma were eliminated, while others were on the run and hiding in the alleys of the city. The monstrous mob took over the citadel square in front of the palace, ripping and burning the reign flag.

The orcs grunted and celebrated, pillaging what they could of the palace and houses. The bodies of the soldiers were piled up and burned and some fed the hungry wargs. Saif’s head now served as adornment on the tip of a spear at the entrance of the square, placed by Gor’gul, his murderer.

The smoke from the fires could be seen from miles, on farms, villages, and even in Eris Stronghold, the nearest citadel of Eldania. Many leagues to the South, in the swamps, a mysterious figure lay in wait from the top of a large tower, knowing that his design had been completed.