Woe be to you heroes and knights, for you who are condemned to fail. The bell strikes on your hour, don the white and the black and the blood of your foes, see the world for who she is.
Where are your hopes and your dreams ; when naught remains in the sky.
Where do the wails of the forsaken fall, when not on the feet of your king. Turn a blind eye, woe to you heroes and knights, for the despair of your end shall come upon your heart.
Woe to you, the Goddess of a fallen city, for you have condemned your children with your love.
The world would come to regret the day they had forsaken him ; the kingdom would fall, despair, and crumble once again and follow in the ruin of its ancient predecessor. The flames would burn and the lustful would prey and the heart of a woman would be his to devour, for only when she fell in death's embrace would he be free from his rein of the world. The verse bound him in spirit and shackled down his tormented soul : a creature forged of greed and hate, of scorn and bitterness like claws sinking through his dark self. As the evil goes and as the bitter rage, his revenge would be given, fueled on by the ancient blood and the regret that simmered in hearts who fled from the world and hid behind their golden city. What howls he made in the night, so wrought with power and agony, cries of despair and promise of anguish to spread upon the land like a festering ooze of poison. The beasts of silver and black were his reaches of fang and claw, he heralded the darkness with their snarls, his eyes were everywhere, his voice echoing through the darkest of hearts and the most bitter of souls.
They say he was once human, that the original Oracles of Vanaheimr stole the Mann child from the beds of the first King ; fed him their blood, violated his spirit, perverted his soul.
What reasons did they have to try and play the game of Gods, what sinister motives fueled these Gypsi bastard children into whispering dark things in the ears of magic, casting blood, spilling the life of many to achieve this creature whom they murmured to and called Lord. He was a monstrous thing born of hate and anger, and there was no heart or mind to speak of - just mindless rage. Vanaheimr fell into ruin and death, the city destroyed within days by the vile anger of one creation - how could such a beast take down the fortress of pride and wonder? Once innocent and mindless hounds, the most simple of creature became warped under his presence, primary canines began shaking uncontrollably and howling in maddened glee, turning on their once upon time masters. Death came upon the seat of the king and crushed the family in bloody ruin, left nothing to remain. His howl was of triumph and heralding the darkness to come - the defiler of Gods.
Filtiarn was to become the king of the realm, the king of despair.
When then, so many years ago, the Gods spun their net and cast it down - they entrapped the beast, reining in his hate for a time and snared him in holy capture. Peace was there, tangible, fleeting, the world could breathe for just a moment when her end was held back into constellations of shining fire. Who was there to foretell the coming end? The world, stubborn as any true verse, found the path to live and blossom from the evil, flourishing in the new kingdom, bringing forth the time of lore and legends, a more simple province that would not see the beast of death for many seasons and generations. They would fade, the truth would be nothing more than a whisper of a story to pass onto the curiosities of babes to lure them into slumber. What worries did they have now when the threat was gone and sealed ; only concerns that remained were the valid purity of bloodlines and councils.
However seals are not meant to last, they fade, they chip away and erode down into nothing - become flimsy cusps of figurative chain that do not perform the task originally bequeathed. He saw such erosion, boded his time, came down unto the mortal plane when the moon was black and Fell did not howl his warn to the world. He would run wild and he would deliver a blow of death to the smallest of villages. For he was not gone, but merely biding his time to rend the verse truly asunder. Filtiarn vowed and swore to return, to kill all, to ear the hearts and eyes of the Seers whom remained in the blood. The kings only scoffed at such rumours, they were joyous, relishing in their glee and pomposity of court and worshipers. The weak and poor suffered for many a year before finally the armies were forged under pretenses of protection when in reality they were constructed to just give a peace of mind and false sense of security.
But people slept peacefully for some time and would not have to fear for many days.
They continued on with their lives of love and money, of carefree whims and routine things. Babes were born, families celebrated in marriage and many a person loved and lost. Vanaheimr was the kingdom of legend and promise and Midgardr could only hope to rise to such glory in her short years. They wrote songs of praise, of loss, posed words that glamoured the war of Filitarn in triumphant heroes and benevolent Gods. The true records were lost to the bite of flame, who could say what really happened? Seers were legends now, nothing more than old stories, not one soul knew of the true evil that beast was and naught one seemed to care.
They would come to regret this, the world would come to regret it all.
With the rise of sun came the whisper of a howl, a soft sound that whistled past a glorified maw and flitted into all the minds and souls that would rise this day. It was routine, the breaking of the night, the early touches of morn coming with a shaft of light and touched of wind. The Province of the Vanir was a place of rich wood and high mountains, the tallest peaks of Fjell told to be the seat of the Gods in tradition and lore. They said Nemaya herself rested in the deepest reaches of a cave, lounging by her pools of pure waters and basking the rays of her winged-sons. Verses like these thrived on story and legend of fantastic mind-sets and beliefs : it was the way of the world. Midgardr rose first with the touches of wolf-song and the cities of beast and elf and Mann would follow in her step.
Isildier although was another manner, these trees and creatures went to their own times and wishes, the forest slumbered easily for the moment, calm in the light of the storm. Such thick vegetation, normally teeming with life, was silent and dreaded and bathed in harsh sunlight that glimmered off the shed of life. The forest floor, once a lush carpeting of greens, was tainted by the lifeless body of a horned creature. Bone spiraled from the cranium in majestic forms, telling of years and experience and the eyes once rich and brown were transfixed in fear - for this prince saw the horrors of old. The body was curled into an odd proportioned angle, legs askew and large torso jutting up with splintered bone, as if falling from a terrible height. Here the branches above were disturbed and broken, destroyed by the body now beneath them.
Such cruelty was not deserving of this creature, but a heavy paw, thick with claw, cared not for these things. Silver-black fur flashed across the green, matted with grime and blood and draped heavily over their frames. Eyes of hollow-white peered down at the carcass and cackled, in the way that evil does, at the dread locked within that dead gaze. The feral things grinned in mad-lust and dove eagerly for the prize, tearing furs and flesh and cracking bone under massive pressure from heavy paws. They feasted in gore and carelessness, they bathed in the blood and filth and fought over the remains of splintered bone. Such vile beasts, evil things, horrid corruptions that cared naught for life.
This was not the only signal of death, every city, every village was left with a prize, a creature, a farm animal - a person. All left dead, thrown carelessly, reeking of death and darkness. A sign, they whispered, a sign that Filtiarn will soon attack.
This was the Varg, the tainted creatures that spread out and tainted the land, these were the things of legend and fear. The rumours were spreading, the stories spun of madness, the evil one comes and he comes fast on the wings of death! Even the Races aside from Mann submit to the beasts and ride astride his armies, heralding his message : he comes for us all. Filtiarn could not rest now that he is free, he cared not for heroes or Gods, he just wanted to lay rest to the Oracle : a woman imprisoned in the kingdom, the last of her kind, the remaining link to the creature. Her spirit was the descendent of old and his only reasons to not yet die. The king, though loved, is a foolish Mann and he turns his eyes away, he looks to his council of many and murmurs of war, how the armies of Lorkin and Gypsi, Elves and all gather in fear - civil war is coming soon.
The cities are murmuring of fear, trying to explain the dead bodies laid outside their kingdoms and regions - trying to decipher the reason behind such slaughter.
The Province is soon to break and break she shall if something does not come to end the tide of misfortune. Eyes have seen the dark future, one of green and the other of blue - they have seen what will come if the heroes do not rise.
One can only hope they come, and fast they should, for the world will fall if they cannot stop the end.