settlement where he now stood, burning. It was the second vision, though, that made the storyteller take pause.
In it, he saw Meuric sitting upon a warhorse on an unknown hilltop wearing the uniform of the Protectorate. On his left sat a second Knight Protector. He too was a warrior from Kelâakh with red and white coloured tattoos upon his face. Meuric turned to him.
âBe strong, Bradán. Today we save our world.â
The man nodded and set his full-face helm over his head. Meuric did likewise. In Bradánâs hand was the standard of the Conclave. When broken down it was a white sword that denoted the Conclaveâs Guardians, a black gauntlet clenched into a fist around its blade conveying the power of the Council and all within a grey shield signifying the Protectorate. Finally, five coloured towers surrounding the picture represented the Troopers of the Conclave.
Flanking the two men on both sides sat the New Gods upon their mighty steeds, emblazoned in their gold and silver armour, almost shining like small suns even in the daylight. He saw himself sitting next to Meuric. He shifted in his seat and looked skyward.
âIf you are seeing this, know that this is the wrong path and we have failed,â said the storyteller from the future. âWe are all that is left on this world.â Meuric turned to him. âIt is a message to me in the hope of stopping this devastation before it ever began.â The Knight Protector nodded. The storyteller could feel a mighty burden upon him. He looked behind the front row.
Behind the two warriors lined up the remainder of the Protectorate, the Conclave, its Troopers and the Guardians. Behind them, hiding just below the ridgeline, stood tens of thousands of warriors. They were all the known armies of man, ready and eager for battle. The storyteller looked more closely at that army.
These were not the professional men and women trained to fight, but were of all shapes and sizes, ethnicities and ages. It seemed to the storyteller that any who could carry a weapon did so and joined, united against a common foe. He understood now that these were the last mortals left on the planet and they fought for their very existence.
Filling a valley before them stood the army of their enemies. The storyteller caught his breath. In human form, like the New Gods, waited the Old Gods and the Dark Ones, reinforced by daemons, men with dark hearts and beasts of sheer brutality. Leading them sat a mortal man upon a horse, dressed in a hooded black robe, his identity obscured even to him. The storyteller looked skyward.
Beyond the blue sky above, through the atmosphere of the world, he espied the twin moons. Both were named Muin after the moon goddess. Past the natural satellites of Teritâre resided a darkness so complete that it filled the whole cosmos, swallowing even the stars.
The storyteller wondered what the blackness meant. He looked hard at it, analysing it, finally labelling it as an abyss of nothingness. Not even his mind could begin to comprehend what it was. Neither could he fathom what it meant. He looked again to the blackness, straining his senses to their limits, and began to hear a rhythmic pulse like that of a heartbeat. This was not a simple darkness but a living creature whose intelligence was as far above him as he was to mortal men.
He travelled back along the course of the blackness, watching it shrink as he went, and sighted the total darkness from its origin. It had started as a pinprick far into the cosmos, a tiny swirling dot of nothingness. He watched it grow then, viewing its expanse at such an alarming rate that encompassed everything so swiftly that for a few heartbeats the storyteller thought he had become blind. He stood in the void analysing what he saw or, in this case, could not see. No light shone, swallowed by the complete darkness. He reached out with his mind, seeking any form of intelligence inside the darkness or beyond it of
In it, he saw Meuric sitting upon a warhorse on an unknown hilltop wearing the uniform of the Protectorate. On his left sat a second Knight Protector. He too was a warrior from Kelâakh with red and white coloured tattoos upon his face. Meuric turned to him.
âBe strong, Bradán. Today we save our world.â
The man nodded and set his full-face helm over his head. Meuric did likewise. In Bradánâs hand was the standard of the Conclave. When broken down it was a white sword that denoted the Conclaveâs Guardians, a black gauntlet clenched into a fist around its blade conveying the power of the Council and all within a grey shield signifying the Protectorate. Finally, five coloured towers surrounding the picture represented the Troopers of the Conclave.
Flanking the two men on both sides sat the New Gods upon their mighty steeds, emblazoned in their gold and silver armour, almost shining like small suns even in the daylight. He saw himself sitting next to Meuric. He shifted in his seat and looked skyward.
âIf you are seeing this, know that this is the wrong path and we have failed,â said the storyteller from the future. âWe are all that is left on this world.â Meuric turned to him. âIt is a message to me in the hope of stopping this devastation before it ever began.â The Knight Protector nodded. The storyteller could feel a mighty burden upon him. He looked behind the front row.
Behind the two warriors lined up the remainder of the Protectorate, the Conclave, its Troopers and the Guardians. Behind them, hiding just below the ridgeline, stood tens of thousands of warriors. They were all the known armies of man, ready and eager for battle. The storyteller looked more closely at that army.
These were not the professional men and women trained to fight, but were of all shapes and sizes, ethnicities and ages. It seemed to the storyteller that any who could carry a weapon did so and joined, united against a common foe. He understood now that these were the last mortals left on the planet and they fought for their very existence.
Filling a valley before them stood the army of their enemies. The storyteller caught his breath. In human form, like the New Gods, waited the Old Gods and the Dark Ones, reinforced by daemons, men with dark hearts and beasts of sheer brutality. Leading them sat a mortal man upon a horse, dressed in a hooded black robe, his identity obscured even to him. The storyteller looked skyward.
Beyond the blue sky above, through the atmosphere of the world, he espied the twin moons. Both were named Muin after the moon goddess. Past the natural satellites of Teritâre resided a darkness so complete that it filled the whole cosmos, swallowing even the stars.
The storyteller wondered what the blackness meant. He looked hard at it, analysing it, finally labelling it as an abyss of nothingness. Not even his mind could begin to comprehend what it was. Neither could he fathom what it meant. He looked again to the blackness, straining his senses to their limits, and began to hear a rhythmic pulse like that of a heartbeat. This was not a simple darkness but a living creature whose intelligence was as far above him as he was to mortal men.
He travelled back along the course of the blackness, watching it shrink as he went, and sighted the total darkness from its origin. It had started as a pinprick far into the cosmos, a tiny swirling dot of nothingness. He watched it grow then, viewing its expanse at such an alarming rate that encompassed everything so swiftly that for a few heartbeats the storyteller thought he had become blind. He stood in the void analysing what he saw or, in this case, could not see. No light shone, swallowed by the complete darkness. He reached out with his mind, seeking any form of intelligence inside the darkness or beyond it of
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