Report Blog Entry
Year 878 in the Fevrith Chronicle. 3 years since the fall of Galerius. 3 years since Alain, King of the Abyss, ascended the continental throne in his place and unleashed untold new horrors upon this already ravaged land. 3 years since Elheim was blanketed in burning darkness, since the populace of Albion began to swell with the ranks of the dead, since the warriors of Bastorias were sent to rip to shreds any who dared approach, since Drakenhold began to flood in the wake of its new queen...since Cornia sank into the earth under the weight of the thing it now served.
The survivors of the war turned survivors of the upheaval hide wherever they are able: inside ancient ruins, in distant villages, underground or in the mountains. Few, if any, real refuges remain. Order is but a distant memory, as is normalcy. All who are still called human waste away in either starvation or sickness as cellars slowly empty and rot fills them instead. Even a return to the despotic reign of Zenoira would have this world see improvement...
Some have begun the task of researching these new terrors that befall us, as if understanding the way the machinations of the gods turn will spare those caught within them from their relentless onward turning of their gears. Many die in the process. Few are sympathetic to their cause. There is no dawn at the end of their long night.
Banditry has become more prevalent than it ever was during the war of a decade past. Abandoned houses that withstood the rising waters still contained supplies worth looting, and for the places inhabited, desperate supplication will never fill as many stomachs as the blade. Pathetic creatures. Yet my swords did little to curb their advance while I was still fit to wield them.
I myself have given up travel and hope to remain here in solitude. Previously, I hoped to search for the ones I left behind during the flood and take them here with me. But even one such as I could never hope to survive in the hell that used to be my homeland. The people, the things I encounter, I have lost more than I ever thought possible in their wake. All I can do is pray to the Father and all the gods to bless them with whatever mercy they still see fit to give.
If this is ever found, the reader may notice the crooked quality of my strokes. My sincerest apologies that among the only records of this time--should time continue past this point--is a journal written by the poor hand of one still becoming accustomed to this new body, including the method of grasping a quill.
Did I not mention? Not a single soul escaped the influence of the endless rain that marked the beginning of this madness. Porcelain and coiled springs are poor substitutes for bones and joints, so I've found. Corrosion proves to be my largest struggle now that I've shed the weakness of a mortal body. There is a part of me, however, that would not return to flesh and blood even if I was able.
-A
Comments
Comments disabled.