Xaltoria Library

Birth of Yelu in August of the year 119 BX, Recorded Year 989 B.X. by, Tisana Herantail
^[1]

It was nighttime I remember now, so young was I then. The stars above seemed endless, and the cool touch of fall was up on the wind. I remember now being a child and wondering what would cause all the adults to stand outside in dead of night and stare up to the sky. Surely not the stars, adults didn’t take time to notice such things as the subtle twinkle of color and light that brought me such comfort as a child. No I didn’t understand at all when they spoke of a gift from Xaltion to come in the night. What ever could it be?

But then it began to happen. Slowly, a spot of light in the sky becoming ever brighter and larger. Round it was, like a plate I thought, round and full and bright. It took a full hour for it to come to its full shining glory, but when it did my heart leapt in my chest. How gorgeous was it! Light purple and blue with a pink aura around it, shining pure white light down onto our world. The darkness was chased away by its astounding presence, as though Xaltion would always keep us safe, even in the darkest hour of the night. I remember as a child, staring up at the sky, almost feeling the light from the moon touch my face the wind across my cheeks now found tears. They were the tears of joy and understanding of being witness to a miracle, this gift from our God. The adults around me were on their knees, their faces also streaked with tears.

I looked up to my mother’s face, the only one still standing. A soft smile broke her timeless visage and the moon seemed to glow as she did in my eyes. My mother turned her face down to me as I stood staring in equal adoration for the new moon and her. ‘What is it mother?’ I asked of her in a soft voice nearly carried away. ‘It is a moon my child. A gift from the Father.’ A patient voice responded. My mother turned her face to my father, his regal visage and ancient aura pulsating against the black night. I turned myself toward him and bowed my head in respect to o my father. ‘But what is it called Father?’ I asked, the insatiable curiosity of a child showing through my training and discipline. ‘Its name is Yelu.’ He responded a small smile of pride on his face as he gazed at my mother. ‘But that is mother’s name.’ I pointed out. ‘Yes, child, it is.’

I cannot explain the pride in me that welled up in that moment. My mother always struck awe in me and was everything I could hope to be as an adult. But to know that this thing of beauty, this gift from Xaltion would bare my mother’s name for all of eternity planted some seed into my mind and soul. It was many years later as I stood at my mother’s death pyre, watching her 2,411 year old body burn in a soft blue fire, that I comforted my tears and loss with the knowledge of my life’s calling. I am Tisana Herantail, daughter of Joaden and Yelu Herantail. I am a Parson of Xaltion and a High Priestess and founder of the Order of Yelu, and I relay to you the birth of Yelu in August of the year 119 BX.

References

1. ↑ Age of Mercy, (Xaltoria History

These are the words scribed by me, Finaloian of Quenae, Scribe of the Order of Yelu, as put forth to me by those that read the Diary of Andalonian with their own eyes before the Chaos Wars destroyed the Library of Quenae.

It was during this time that the Human King Brenatire was seeking a wife. Having approached middle age, his search was heavily underway. King Brenatire had been shown the most beautiful woman of his kingdom, but had yet to choose any of them. He didn’t need just a wife. He needed a queen, a mother to his kingdom and his heir. Not just any girl would do.

The search had gone on for nearly four years when a merchant in his court came forth and presented his daughter who had just come of age to marry. King Brenatire was instantly attracted to the girl who’s name was Andalonian. Though very young, only 16 seasons, Andalonian was very intelligent. Having grown up in a merchant house, she was not unaware of how finances and the world worked. To top it all off, the girl was absolutely beautiful.

Within a short few months, King Brenatire and Andalonian were married. His kingdom rejoiced and all thought good times lay ahead. At first, the marriage seemed to be a match made in heaven. The two were very much in love and spent much of their time together. After a year, and there still being no heir, Andalonian was pronounced infertile by court physicians.

The shock and devastation this brought to the couple’s life was immeasurable. The king needed an heir and was growing no younger. Andalonian wanted nothing more than to provide him that heir. The thought of disappointing him in such a way was beyond her ability to handle. After another year, with still no heir, the king was forced to attempt to obtain an heir elsewhere.

He took on mistresses in as much secrecy as possible, but Andalonian was not a fool. She knew. She could barely stand the thought of her beloved husband with another woman, and more so the thought that it was her fault that he had to go elsewhere. She began to loath herself. Rumors began to spread that Andalonian was going mad. Known to sit staring at her reflection in a mirror for hours, not eating, not drinking, not moving even to blink. Then, she would break out into a terrifying violent rage which usually result in battered servants an her own face being torn by her nails.

She was in absolute turmoil. The King was no better. At night he would weep before going to a mistress. It had been months and those that had conceived somehow would always lose the child in a miscarriage. The rumors were Andalonian had something to do with this, but this was never proven. This went on for over a year, and then suddenly there was a change.

Andalonian seemed different, aloof and distant. As though she had simply detached herself from the world and all the pain it had brought her. Many thought she had finally simply slipped her mind, unable to deal with the turmoil that was her life.

The King continued his plight for an heir, but to this day there is no record of him ever succeeding. He really didn’t have a chance. For Andalonian had not simply ‘forgotten’ her life, she had found another purpose. Kezarai, one of Xaltion’s brothers who he had trapped in the center of the earth (see the age of mystics and rending) , had made contact with Andalonian. She had reached a point of misery and despair so great that he was able to establish a bond with her. He fed his power into her and trained her to be a very powerful necromancer with promises of giving her the child she sought. Why be the mother to the child of a king when you could be the mother to the child of a god? Andalonian leaped at the offer uncaring of what she had to do. She did indeed have a child, and that child was half man and half god. The perfect Avatar for his father.

Kezarai built Andalonian up to have enough power to actually help free him from his prison. Andalonian called a meeting of the 1000 or so followers she had managed to collect in the secrecy of the dungeons of the castle over the time span of 20 years. There, she took all of their lives to power the spell Kezarai directed her in casting. They almost succeeded. He was just emerging from his prison when Xaltion figured out what was going on, and thus the Age of Rending was at hand. Queen Andalonian single handedly set into motion the events that almost shattered the world, and changed it for all time.

References

This crumpled note was scrawled on parchment that was found protected in ale mug and recovered from the rubble in Laraville. It is the only account of the twenty that stayed behind to guard the escape from Laraville during the Chaos Wars^[1]. It is authentic and approved by the Scribes of Quenae, Chelsa, and Laraville. Rescribed by Donival of Laraville, 900 A.X.

And so they came.
We were thankful at that moment for the thick tree trunks fashioned into the wall that surrounded Laraville and laid themselves between us, and.. them.
Them. That’s what they had been called.
So fearsome there was no name.
This unknown force of evil that set upon the bottom of the hill. Howling… roaring… the sounds they all made together as they waved weapon and … bodies.. over their heads… it was like a terrible beast spewing malice onto the world.
And they came.
‘Steady men..’ I grit my teeth at the sound of my own voice, cracking, shaking.
Not with fear, no. It was.. disbelief.
The inability to understand how it had come to this.
There was no time to ask ‘Why’.
There had been no declaration of war, no political slight that we could point to and say ‘That is the reason.’
We had never even met them before.
We didn’t even know what they were.
And yet they came.
As they had come for the past three months.
Tearing at the gates as we poured hot oil, and rained arrows down upon them.
As we stabbed at them with spear and sword through slits that had occurred naturally as the wooden barricade had settled over the years that it had stood around this great town.
It held though.
Oh this glorious barricade of Laraville.
It held.
What didn’t hold was the food.
As they came, I looked to my men, their half starved faces gazing out with empty eyes to the beasts that tangled in their sheer numbers half-way up the hill by then.
They gazed. Hands steady as they drew their bows back.
I did not correct their posture or angle. I did not tell them to fire at will.
We had been at this for months. They knew what to do without me.
I too stared out, my body giving me no reaction as a thick black arrow embedded itself in the log in front of me.
No, I was far away from here, staring at the hills beyond the mass of hate, beyond the tents that housed them, beyond the tendrils of camp fires and the flesh of the dead that fed them.
And they came as I roamed the hills, the wonderful hills.
The quiet, serene forest near the trickling creek..Cool waters flowed over my bare feet and the wild berries burst on my tongue. They were so sweet… so fresh… the birds sang in the trees and the sunlight filtered through the trees to set the water sparkling. ‘Sir, they all be gotten out.’ His broken Common brought me back to that barricade there in Laraville.
I blinked slowly staring at the man at my side, I finally nodded.
‘Alright men. They are out.’ I couldn’t help but smile a little as the first spark of hope and relief tendered their faces for a moment. Just a moment.
And they came.
Crashing into the logs, the horrible creaking and scraping and scratching.
I was already moving down the ladder, others had leapt from the landing onto roofs sliding down to the streets, grabbing torches that had been lit and were waiting. Waiting to set Laraville to flames.
I walked into the tavern and sat here, at this bar, writing this, the last of the moments of my life.
I hear the flare of straw being lit… I smell the smell of wood.. precious wood burning… I hear the screams of men and the thud of arrows into their bodies.
Here in this bar in Laraville, sacred Laraville, my mind and hand are sure and of a clarity that must surely only be known as one calmly awaits their own death.
I sit here and I understand that all my life all my time here was for this moment.
It was for this moment that Xaltion placed life into these bones and set me upon this gorgeous world of Xaltoria.
To guard the escape of the last of my people.
I was Gerandelian, Ranger of the Ninth Wood.
Remember my name. Remember that I was here.
Remember I was a good man, and I loved this land and my people.
And they are he--

References

1. ↑ Age of Chaos, (Xaltoria History