Genesis of Syrros: Part III

A slice of cosmogony from the world of the Cursed Eight

By

Accipiter G. Goshawk

So far, I have merely chronicled the adventures of the Cursed Eight as they wander the continent of Dersorrah. From time to time I have even told the stories of a few of the odd personages they have encountered in their travels.

Now I am slowly taking the time to reveal the more universal truths that bind this world together.

Here follows an excerpt from the writings of Saint Vornias, detailing the return of the Twelve to Syrros and their investiture of the Prophets.

I have not always been known as Vornias, Prophet of Gerotil.

Once, in the dark twilight preceding the return of the Twelve, I was no more than a lowly farmer. I lost my younger years coaxing meagre harvests from barren soils. It was never enough to satisfy our overlords’ greed and my family was often pushed to the brink of starvation. Were it not for the many indignities we submitted ourselves to, I doubt that any of our children would have seen their fourth winter.

Then, on a day at the doors of summer, I felt a presence calling to me. It was beyond any sensation I had ever experienced: joyous, powerful and absolutely compelling. In that moment I understood that I had been destined for a higher purpose and that my old life had lost all meaning.

That very same day I left everything behind and followed the call east, to the Sapphire Mountains.

To Dereillon.

As my journey progressed, I encountered others. We had never met before, yet in their eyes I saw the same hunger; in their movements the same impatient drive. We were a motley crew and yet our presence did not draw unfriendly eyes: we walked through the wilderness untouched, as if protected by a higher power.

When we finally stepped on to the sacred pathway to Karal-derel –the Crescent Cliff- we were twelve.

Above us, the gods waited.

Nothing can ever compare to the sight that presented itself to my weary eyes that night. In an instant, the world was stripped away, as we bathed in the incomparable radiance of Their worldly incarnation.

The Six Givers were set to the left of the semi-circular gorge, while the Six Takers occupied the shadowy south face. Each sat on a throne of rough granite carved to represent the elements they lorded over.

In the centre of the arc sat glowing Thelas, her elven form more beautiful and perfect than any child of the Evenlight Forest. To her right rested Shareksh, whose dark eyes –set over a skeletal grin- devoured hope and time.

But to neither of these was I promised. Only Lord Gerotil in his quiet grace held my attention. He had chosen to take the shape of a small white-haired gnome, and yet in my eyes he was taller than any mountain.

“You have been chosen.”

The words swept around us like shards of light, drawing our attention to the adamantine eyes of Thelas.

“We are the Twelve and we have returned to our lost creation. Once banished by our imperfect children, we wander the empty realms no longer. Upon you, our chosen, we task the spreading of this news. You are to travel to the mortal kingdoms and summon their masters to Dereillon, so that they may see with their eyes that the gods have returned. You will also spread the word that our children – whom shall now and forever after be known as Rim-walkers – have been banished from reality and will never mar our creation with their blasphemy again.”

And we knew the words to be true, for they were spoken with the voice of a goddess.

We left that place shortly after, armed with the will of our patrons and moved by our holy mission.

Although this is the greatest of the tasks I was given, in my mind it pales in comparison to the mysteries revealed to me by my Lord and the secrets I alone am destined to keep.-

Excerpt from the lost memoirs of Saint Vornias, Prophet of Gerotil

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