The Creation: drannor
Realms. Worlds, domains, natural planes, universes. Imagine if the multiverse theory was true, a fact. Imagine that there were an infinite amount of mirrors of the current world, each differing from each other from the consequences of a single decision. Countless decisions occur every minute of every day, every second, each giving rise to a separate universe, a differing reality. Those realities giving rise to separate and distinct realities of their own. Imagine that this has held true since the beginning of time, that some are so radically different than the reality you exist in, they would be unrecognizable.
Imagine a way for more common creatures to travel from one realm to another, safely traversing the space between. That in some of the realms, a mere fraction of the amount existing, stable wormholes, portals that do not require protections to travel, opened by technological or magical means, exist and are used. These portals are relatively young, as compared to the age of the always, the multiverse. In some realms they are used extensively, and in others, not much at all. Travel is completely safe, unrestricted by the portal itself, and a mere imagining away.
Now imagine the vulnerability of these realms to those that would wish individuals harm. Freedom of travel to an unlimited quantity of universes, an unlimited quantity of people and realities to torment, an unlimited quantity of demons to join the invading hordes.
In all realms there exists both good and evil. Most are balanced, light and dark existing and struggling against one another. Some, however are not. Realms unbalanced towards evil have discovered their portals, and the workings of them. They began to invade the balanced ones, conquering through brute force and destroying all that exists within them, twisting them through subterfuge into more pleasing images of their own existences. Their appetites for destruction are insatiable, each and every realm under threat of corruption.
As these realms were conquered, the denizens of them, the ones that could flee, escaped through the portals. All manner of sentient individuals fled to whichever realm was within imagining. More powerful creatures, Dragons as ancient as the realms themselves, with powerful magics, gathered in the space between realities. They brought with them as many of their kind as they could, and were in desperate need for a safe haven.
In their dire need, the most ancient of these turned to their deity, Drannor. An old goddess, almost forgotten, she had slumbered for eons before being awoken by their cries. With the last of her energy she whispered secrets to the eldest, secrets of a magic to birth a new realm. Joining together in a linked circle, the eldest used these secrets to the best of their abilities, creating this new realm, a small refuge for their kind. The effort was too much for them however, and they followed their goddess. The eldest remaining, Viserion, named the realm after the sacrifice, vowing to welcome and protect all refugees.
Imagine a way for more common creatures to travel from one realm to another, safely traversing the space between. That in some of the realms, a mere fraction of the amount existing, stable wormholes, portals that do not require protections to travel, opened by technological or magical means, exist and are used. These portals are relatively young, as compared to the age of the always, the multiverse. In some realms they are used extensively, and in others, not much at all. Travel is completely safe, unrestricted by the portal itself, and a mere imagining away.
Now imagine the vulnerability of these realms to those that would wish individuals harm. Freedom of travel to an unlimited quantity of universes, an unlimited quantity of people and realities to torment, an unlimited quantity of demons to join the invading hordes.
In all realms there exists both good and evil. Most are balanced, light and dark existing and struggling against one another. Some, however are not. Realms unbalanced towards evil have discovered their portals, and the workings of them. They began to invade the balanced ones, conquering through brute force and destroying all that exists within them, twisting them through subterfuge into more pleasing images of their own existences. Their appetites for destruction are insatiable, each and every realm under threat of corruption.
As these realms were conquered, the denizens of them, the ones that could flee, escaped through the portals. All manner of sentient individuals fled to whichever realm was within imagining. More powerful creatures, Dragons as ancient as the realms themselves, with powerful magics, gathered in the space between realities. They brought with them as many of their kind as they could, and were in desperate need for a safe haven.
In their dire need, the most ancient of these turned to their deity, Drannor. An old goddess, almost forgotten, she had slumbered for eons before being awoken by their cries. With the last of her energy she whispered secrets to the eldest, secrets of a magic to birth a new realm. Joining together in a linked circle, the eldest used these secrets to the best of their abilities, creating this new realm, a small refuge for their kind. The effort was too much for them however, and they followed their goddess. The eldest remaining, Viserion, named the realm after the sacrifice, vowing to welcome and protect all refugees.
Darkness swallows
Times were good, plentiful, bountiful even. The new lands were a gift, literally a godsend, to the Dragons. Other refugees from other lands soon stumbled across with realm, the first few claiming the lands and it’s natural bounty for themselves, carving it into territories and brokering peace with the dragons. For fifty years, peace reigned over Drannor, peace and prosperity under a dual Queenship.
Queen of the village named after the realm, the queen who stood guard over the civilized areas and the portal itself, was named Calonette Shevynn. An elf from elf lands, she carried herself and ruled akin to her kin; fair, just, aloof from those below her from necessary need or the dictates of her position. Queen of the fae, of the wonderfully, wild, magical and mysterious, as well as things that go bump in the night; of magical beings and the hinterlands that they settled in, was A’ika. Fleeing from her home realm, H’sime, her and her kind found refuge in Drannor. Always unpredictable, yet tethered to seelie ideals, she ruled with empathy, from her heart, which was kind, caring, forgiving. Under their watchful gaze, the shorter lived beings of the realm of Drannor prospered. For fifty years they were left to their own devices, for fifty years the first refugees built a good life.
Following this short time of peace, more and more refugees began appearing, fleeing the demon assaults upon their home realms. Slowy, yet surely, the peace was shattered, irreparably. The demon hordes had learned of Drannor’s existence, and it was suspected that they had learned of such from the flight and search for one man, a man named Sicarius Tenebrae. His subsequent trial and execution by fire was hard on the Queens, and the realm as a whole. Winter fell upon the realm, as if mourning the loss or even a punishment for the transgression. Winter in a land where the seasons and time itself seemed to stand still. It was a sign of destabilization, of something surely amiss.
During this sudden winter, romance was in the air, a royal romance. Queen Calonette, in a rare lapse of her stoicism, found solace in the arms of a certain gentleman elf, by the name of Senoka Glenn. Taken as consort to the Queen, she found what short lived happiness she could and a child was conceived. This child was named Rayania Shevynn, her birth was celebrated, then the child was whisked away to safer lands. For a brief time, life almost returned to normal in the village. Almost.
Too long had the question of the demons and what to do about them been discussed, deliberated, argued, and some might claim, ignored. They had found Drannor; they attacked. First, like the refugees, they came in dribs and drabs, singly or in pairs; then they came in larger and larger groups, in droves, attracted like moths to the flame. Rifts appeared throughout the realm, rips in time and space, chaos where there had been previously order. Steadily, assuredly, the realm began tearing itself apart, unable to handle onslaught.
Drannor in its death throes, Queen Calonette ventured through the portal to find a realm ideal and safe to flee to, a realm that might serve to purpose, that might be a home, a refuge for the once again refugees. Accompanied by her dragon mount, Celeste, they searched far and wide for a suitable refuge. Desperately they searched, realm after realm after realm, and were still searching when the final attack began. They were unable to return before the assault, not seen nor heard of since.
Wave upon wave of demons exited the portal, demons of all shapes and sizes, enough to blacken the hills surrounding the village itself. Dragons exploded from their underground caverns, filling the skies, doing battle with the invaders above and below. Defenders lined the newly built all too fragile walls, trading arrows, insults, and lives with the horde that laid siege. Losses were great on either side as the siege wore on through the first day, as the demons prepared for their assault; losses that were hard for the defenders but failed to even scratch the surface of the ocean of invaders. As dusk began and the sun fell from it’s perch, when the horizon showed its tell tale hues of reds, oranges, blues and purples, the horde’s horns sounded the charge.
Seeing the inevitable destruction of the realm birthed from his own pleas, the death of his charges, Viserion fell from the sky with a roar, withdrawing his flight from their attacking positions to ones of defense, a cover for a retreat. A rift was torn to an unknown realm, or at least unknown to most with the exception of Viseron, and his flight struggled to hold the demons at bay, struggled to purchase safe passage at the steepest of prices. His rider, Queen A’ika herself, gave her own orders for retreat and mounted, taking flight to hold off the demons so the village might survive it’s desperate retreat.
Queen of the village named after the realm, the queen who stood guard over the civilized areas and the portal itself, was named Calonette Shevynn. An elf from elf lands, she carried herself and ruled akin to her kin; fair, just, aloof from those below her from necessary need or the dictates of her position. Queen of the fae, of the wonderfully, wild, magical and mysterious, as well as things that go bump in the night; of magical beings and the hinterlands that they settled in, was A’ika. Fleeing from her home realm, H’sime, her and her kind found refuge in Drannor. Always unpredictable, yet tethered to seelie ideals, she ruled with empathy, from her heart, which was kind, caring, forgiving. Under their watchful gaze, the shorter lived beings of the realm of Drannor prospered. For fifty years they were left to their own devices, for fifty years the first refugees built a good life.
Following this short time of peace, more and more refugees began appearing, fleeing the demon assaults upon their home realms. Slowy, yet surely, the peace was shattered, irreparably. The demon hordes had learned of Drannor’s existence, and it was suspected that they had learned of such from the flight and search for one man, a man named Sicarius Tenebrae. His subsequent trial and execution by fire was hard on the Queens, and the realm as a whole. Winter fell upon the realm, as if mourning the loss or even a punishment for the transgression. Winter in a land where the seasons and time itself seemed to stand still. It was a sign of destabilization, of something surely amiss.
During this sudden winter, romance was in the air, a royal romance. Queen Calonette, in a rare lapse of her stoicism, found solace in the arms of a certain gentleman elf, by the name of Senoka Glenn. Taken as consort to the Queen, she found what short lived happiness she could and a child was conceived. This child was named Rayania Shevynn, her birth was celebrated, then the child was whisked away to safer lands. For a brief time, life almost returned to normal in the village. Almost.
Too long had the question of the demons and what to do about them been discussed, deliberated, argued, and some might claim, ignored. They had found Drannor; they attacked. First, like the refugees, they came in dribs and drabs, singly or in pairs; then they came in larger and larger groups, in droves, attracted like moths to the flame. Rifts appeared throughout the realm, rips in time and space, chaos where there had been previously order. Steadily, assuredly, the realm began tearing itself apart, unable to handle onslaught.
Drannor in its death throes, Queen Calonette ventured through the portal to find a realm ideal and safe to flee to, a realm that might serve to purpose, that might be a home, a refuge for the once again refugees. Accompanied by her dragon mount, Celeste, they searched far and wide for a suitable refuge. Desperately they searched, realm after realm after realm, and were still searching when the final attack began. They were unable to return before the assault, not seen nor heard of since.
Wave upon wave of demons exited the portal, demons of all shapes and sizes, enough to blacken the hills surrounding the village itself. Dragons exploded from their underground caverns, filling the skies, doing battle with the invaders above and below. Defenders lined the newly built all too fragile walls, trading arrows, insults, and lives with the horde that laid siege. Losses were great on either side as the siege wore on through the first day, as the demons prepared for their assault; losses that were hard for the defenders but failed to even scratch the surface of the ocean of invaders. As dusk began and the sun fell from it’s perch, when the horizon showed its tell tale hues of reds, oranges, blues and purples, the horde’s horns sounded the charge.
Seeing the inevitable destruction of the realm birthed from his own pleas, the death of his charges, Viserion fell from the sky with a roar, withdrawing his flight from their attacking positions to ones of defense, a cover for a retreat. A rift was torn to an unknown realm, or at least unknown to most with the exception of Viseron, and his flight struggled to hold the demons at bay, struggled to purchase safe passage at the steepest of prices. His rider, Queen A’ika herself, gave her own orders for retreat and mounted, taking flight to hold off the demons so the village might survive it’s desperate retreat.
the arrival: Ukavone Kulkodar
Alarms rang throughout the Orc encampment, bellows from warriors called the people to arms. Women, children, and tradesman ran to defend the village as the warriors assembled, ready to march on moments. Lu’Blagh was their chieftain, Lu’Blagh was at their head, ready and more than willing to lead them into battle. People had begun streaming into the forests below, into their lands, come to take their homes. The horn was sounded to march, and so march they did, straight into the face of this unknown enemy; ferocious to the man, they marched to rip its throat.
Battle lines were formed, skirmishers and scouts were sent forward, the chieftain paced, while the gathered Orcs itched for their time to fight. Reports came back, the enemy was weak, one charge would break their back! Charge, they would have anyways, but charge with hunger they did now. They ran as one, streaming forward, battle cries mixing with horns to fill the air, to strike terror into the hearts of the invaders.
As they covered the hillside, as the river of orcs surged forward, suddenly, a massive flight of dragons burst through the portal, filling the skies with their numbers. Dragons of all sizes, shapes, and colors blotted out the sun; the charge slowed. They did not halt entirely, the orcs in wonder at the sheer number of their gods turned to flesh, but they still advanced, with a single minded determination to defend their homelands. A steel dragon lead the flight, massive and exuding power, with a rider atop its back. Seeing the closing orcs, the dragon would land heavily, spraying earth, then rear and roar in draconic.
"Krii faal Hokzii!!!", was what was roared, the translation of which was readily apparent to Lu’Blagh. He pulled a seldom used, ornately carved horn from his belt, and put it to his lips, sounding the horn. Immediately, the warriors sped up, running with all of their might, howls and cries silencing as one. Air that was thick with righteous fury had become stale. Determination was on the face of each warrior, determination that as if they knew sudden death was in front of them, sudden death that they would meet head on.
Just as it seemed as if they would crash into the invaders, ranks split, each warrior acting individually, instead of as a whole. Dodging the warm bodies, they crashed into and past the invaders without so much as a look, let alone a swing, acting singly to pick their way through the newcomers, streaming as a whole towards the portal. As they neared, a well built, almost idyllic town could be seen on the other side, a town that was aflame, awash with the chaotic masses of demons, demons who ran for the portal themselves, who began to come through. Steel met carapace, claw pierced green muscle, orc and demon danced, the strength of each meted.
Just as it seemed as if the demons were to gain purchase upon this new battlefield, the portal turned sideways, and winked out of existence with a flash. What small number of demons remained were hastily dispatched, hastily, for the issue of the invaders were still to be dealt with. Lu’Blagh pushed his way through his own lines, to the rear-now-front; his men turned as one knowing that battle might not be done. The steel dragon advanced, closing the distance between himself and the chieftain; History was made that day, an accord struck, a deal made, between the dragon and the orc, in the open field between the two peoples.
The refugees had found a new home. They were granted leave to use the land, so long as ownership was not claimed and tithes were paid. Drannorians settled, near enough to the orc encampment for trade, far enough to be on their own; they settled and tried to rebuild their lives, building a village they named Molgad. The first years were hard, many had been lost in the flight, winter in the new lands were harsh on the best of days, pestilence, starvation, and drought took others. Disagreements and skirmishes were had between the two peoples; The Drannorians left were the hardiest of them and were there to stay. Eventually, the refugees were able to build a life resembling the one left behind, eventually the two peoples got used to one another, tolerated each other’s presence. Rayania was found to be living among the Orcs themselves, A’ika had survived, the dual Queenship was revived. The portal itself in this realm was unstable, appearing randomly, never staying in the same position for long. A hundred years have passed since the events relayed in this account, a hundred years of relative peace, if not prosperity, a hundred years before our story begins today...
Battle lines were formed, skirmishers and scouts were sent forward, the chieftain paced, while the gathered Orcs itched for their time to fight. Reports came back, the enemy was weak, one charge would break their back! Charge, they would have anyways, but charge with hunger they did now. They ran as one, streaming forward, battle cries mixing with horns to fill the air, to strike terror into the hearts of the invaders.
As they covered the hillside, as the river of orcs surged forward, suddenly, a massive flight of dragons burst through the portal, filling the skies with their numbers. Dragons of all sizes, shapes, and colors blotted out the sun; the charge slowed. They did not halt entirely, the orcs in wonder at the sheer number of their gods turned to flesh, but they still advanced, with a single minded determination to defend their homelands. A steel dragon lead the flight, massive and exuding power, with a rider atop its back. Seeing the closing orcs, the dragon would land heavily, spraying earth, then rear and roar in draconic.
"Krii faal Hokzii!!!", was what was roared, the translation of which was readily apparent to Lu’Blagh. He pulled a seldom used, ornately carved horn from his belt, and put it to his lips, sounding the horn. Immediately, the warriors sped up, running with all of their might, howls and cries silencing as one. Air that was thick with righteous fury had become stale. Determination was on the face of each warrior, determination that as if they knew sudden death was in front of them, sudden death that they would meet head on.
Just as it seemed as if they would crash into the invaders, ranks split, each warrior acting individually, instead of as a whole. Dodging the warm bodies, they crashed into and past the invaders without so much as a look, let alone a swing, acting singly to pick their way through the newcomers, streaming as a whole towards the portal. As they neared, a well built, almost idyllic town could be seen on the other side, a town that was aflame, awash with the chaotic masses of demons, demons who ran for the portal themselves, who began to come through. Steel met carapace, claw pierced green muscle, orc and demon danced, the strength of each meted.
Just as it seemed as if the demons were to gain purchase upon this new battlefield, the portal turned sideways, and winked out of existence with a flash. What small number of demons remained were hastily dispatched, hastily, for the issue of the invaders were still to be dealt with. Lu’Blagh pushed his way through his own lines, to the rear-now-front; his men turned as one knowing that battle might not be done. The steel dragon advanced, closing the distance between himself and the chieftain; History was made that day, an accord struck, a deal made, between the dragon and the orc, in the open field between the two peoples.
The refugees had found a new home. They were granted leave to use the land, so long as ownership was not claimed and tithes were paid. Drannorians settled, near enough to the orc encampment for trade, far enough to be on their own; they settled and tried to rebuild their lives, building a village they named Molgad. The first years were hard, many had been lost in the flight, winter in the new lands were harsh on the best of days, pestilence, starvation, and drought took others. Disagreements and skirmishes were had between the two peoples; The Drannorians left were the hardiest of them and were there to stay. Eventually, the refugees were able to build a life resembling the one left behind, eventually the two peoples got used to one another, tolerated each other’s presence. Rayania was found to be living among the Orcs themselves, A’ika had survived, the dual Queenship was revived. The portal itself in this realm was unstable, appearing randomly, never staying in the same position for long. A hundred years have passed since the events relayed in this account, a hundred years of relative peace, if not prosperity, a hundred years before our story begins today...