EWS HAD ARRIVED FROM HIS diplomat, Hayden, that civil war was perhaps brewing in lands far southern.
The Windturns and the Royal Amaedyeres had had their sibling rivalries as a unified force once upon a time, but civil war was something very unlike them in the present day. Word came last night that the last son of the dying Amaedyeres King, Tetren Dianephis, had slain his younger sister in a fit of rage. Claims have befell the wind that the family of Windturns, led by the Serapid noblelord and a member himself, have orchestrated for her to lead war against her own royal family.
However, alas, she was dead at the time of report, and it seemed to Jeran Godlyric, the current noblelord Armodaim of Thundertöd, that civil war was inevitable. The situation was doomed, a terrible birth of an event.
“This world cannot stay sane for very long,” he uttered to himself.
His chancery was dark usually, he liked it that way, and he appreciated the love that the darkness left unreciprocated, for the essence was even quieter to him and did not acknowledge his affection. The limbos of the world, the in-betweens of life, were what kept Jeran content as a man, and as a leader. The silence was peace to contemplate, and this was his land. The Armodaim was grateful that his protectant-realm was free of mad tales like those he had recently heard. However, it must have been no coincidence that his cousin Pip went out and drowned some days ago.
The ancient goblet near his desk suddenly burst into a beautiful wind of a flame. It smelled peculiarly of cinnamon, freshly dug from the earth. This smell was the first time in a long time that the blue flame’s essence bombarded him.
The last time that Jeran remembered the great blue flame alit upon its goblet was when he was but an administer to the last Armodaim and Solhathor was still in full force.
Now, he was the Armodaim by his loyal word and heroism and by other great acts (none that he feigned) he had, by every manner, a hefty office to fill and time, now, to wonder why that flame was alight once more after so many peaceful years.
The flame had one purpose and one grave purpose only: to warn of especially terrible and powerful intruders.
Akumot Godlyric, the esteemed and current Sorcis of the Haventh had made a visit to the Thundertöd capital today. He was Jeran’s great uncle.
The Sorcis, his title, was an especially renowned figure in the world of New Haventhers. It was this fact that the holy leader of the faith was his sanctified and untouchable title.
Despite it, this man was a regular relative to the Armodaim, and he, Jeran, was not an average man. The two entwined as perfect personages—sharers of blood, beautifully cursed with fame. However, Jeran simply saw his uncle’s appearance as standard as the ragnarus magic floating adrift the many realms of Ogorrd. Fine days like these, or often, any day the Sorcis Akumot wished, were when he crept from his holy duties and visited close family. He was...