Chapter 1-2
Everything was going according to plan. The words whispered amidst the hushed whispers. They watched with a mix of dread and fascination as their mother transformed before their eyes, her once youthful form contorting into that of an old hag. The air was heavy with a musty scent, as if the weight of impending doom permeated the atmosphere. The maypole celebration, usually a time of joy and merriment, now cast a dark shadow over the town. Morgan, always a harbinger of unpleasantness, had orchestrated this twisted spectacle. Sacrifices needed to be made, for such was the cruel balance of life. Good, inevitably accompanied by its wicked counterpart. Morgan, a personification of all that was sinister and malevolent.
Thankfully, the most of the village's inhabitants had already sought refuge in the safety of the towering mountains, guided by the benevolence of the gods. Sandra, my wife, a powerful oracle, had foreseen these events, allowing us to be prepared. The notion of a lottery, determining who would stay and who would go, weighed heavily upon us. But death, a mere passage from one realm to the next, was inevitable. Morgan, in his twisted mercy, only hastened the fate that awaited those chosen. It was a somber realization, tinged with sadness.
Sandra, selflessly, gave her life in defense of our village, ensuring the preservation of the sacred scrolls that would guide us towards a figure known as the White Solon, under the watchful gaze of the Gods of Light. The people knew that and were prepared to give up their lives if needed, to safeguard those sacred scrolls until the White Solon could recreate the worlds and restore the harmony and peace that used to be shared among all the realms.
The air was thick with tension as the villagers prepared for the impending battle. The scent of burning incense filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of damp soil. The sound of armor clinking and swords being sharpened echoed through the village, a symphony of determination and resolve. The weight of their responsibility pressed upon their shoulders, yet they stood tall, ready to face the darkness that threatened their existence. The sun cast long shadows as a reminder of the impending danger that lurked. In their hearts, they knew that today was merely a precursor of what would and will happen to all who worship and walk in the Light, not the shadow of Darkness where Evil lives.
Desmond and his father sobbed as they tightly embraced their mother for the final time, the heaviness of their hearts palpable. The scouts delivered the dreaded news that Morgan and his ominous Dark soldiers were drawing near, casting a shadow of fear over us all. The vibrant ribbons fluttered in the breeze, their colors dancing in the air, while the aroma of food wafted from the table, a bittersweet reminder of our last feast together. This day was meant to be a celebration, our Maypole Day, where the youth of our village would seek love and hope beneath its sheltering branches. But now, with Morgan's impending arrival, such joyous unions seemed impossible. We knew in advance about his impending arrival and the devastation he would bring.
Our town, like countless others before it, would crumble under his merciless reign, its people mere pawns in his army of heartless men. Some succumbed to coercion and served his wicked cause, while others willingly joined his army of heartless men as handpicked loyal followers. Desmond, my beloved son, and I, known as Jerald Brandywine, had the honor of being chosen by the Gods of Light to stay behind and negotiate a treacherous agreement. Both he and his father, without hesitation, made the daring decision to infiltrate Morgan's camp, willingly putting their lives at stake in order to disrupt his nefarious plans and liberate the imprisoned souls.
Their sacrifice would offer salvation to our village, granting them safe passage to the high mountains, where the High Elders would relocate them to new havens.
We didn't seek rewards or wealth; our only concern was saving lives and ending the torment. If fortune favored us, we would escape with our lives, along with those we managed to rescue from the clutches of the encroaching Shadow realm. This was our fervent desire, our unwavering purpose.
We had meticulously decided to alter our surnames, deliberately distancing ourselves from the Brandywine name. Morgan and his master, Hess Lotti, would remain unaware of our name change. Unfortunately, the danger of discovery loomed over Jarald and his son Desmond like a dark cloud, their hearts pounding in their chests. They knew they had to abandon the name Brandywine, their beloved identity, and embrace a new name, Whitecrest. It was a bitter pill to swallow, a sacrifice that weighed heavily on their souls. Because of Sandra Brandywine's renown throughout the realms, they knew that two individuals would have to be sacrificed for this immense task.
The mere thought of the name Brandywine brought forth images of unfathomable torture and certain death. The air was thick with the scent of fear, suffocating and oppressive. It was a daunting task, one that required a touch of fantastical brilliance and the power of magic itself. They needed to ensure that every person who had ever known Jarald and Desmond would forget them, their very existence wiped clean from memory.
A sense of cruel necessity hung in the air, an ethereal presence that whispered of the lives they were about to leave behind. But they had to do it, for their own survival and for the captive villagers who suffered under the watchful gaze of Morgan, their relentless master, and his Dark Army. The weight of this burden pressed upon their shoulders, threatening to crush their resolve.
They knew that their only hope lay in the intervention of the Gods of light, their desperate prayers carried away by the wind. The scene was set, and light and darkness were about to engage in an invisible battle. Time seemed to stand still as they prepared themselves for the unknown, their hearts filled with both fear and determination. However, what they didn't realize was that the sacrifices made were not human beings, but rather straw figures brought to life by magic. Though surreal, we witnessed them bleed and scream as they met their end, their lifeless bodies tossed into a pit alongside the other straw creations we had formed.
Only three individuals were human, but sickness had already afflicted them, and they were on the brink of death. In a sense, their swift departure from this world, courtesy of the benevolent Gods of Light, was an act of mercy. They felt no pain. The crucial aspect was that it worked for Morgan. The dark soldiers remained oblivious to the distinction, as did their esteemed leader, Hess Lotti, a frail old man destined for the grave. We were surprised that Morgan hadn't dispatched him yet, as he didn't possess weakness as a trait, and his men had no tolerance for it. Whitecrest became our new identity, symbolizing the "Light" that guided us, radiating truth and knowledge. We sealed the name by adding "Crest." It served as our code name for exchanging crucial information. In return, a reliable source would send us a note, marked with a black bird with a white underbelly or a feather with those two colors. This symbol signified trust.
During our extraordinary journey, we would stumble upon an abundance of feathers and meticulously written notes scattered throughout our path. The omniscient Gods of Light informed us to expect occasional encounters with enigmatic messages, which the ethereal wings known as "dragon's wing," a mail service for wizards and the people they needed to contact, would gracefully carry. At other times, creatures both small and large delivered these missives, their purpose shrouded in mystery. The given "gift of sight," particularly for me, Jerald a common man, was an invaluable treasure we had obtained.
It granted us the ability to perceive the unfathomable, transcending the limits of the human mind, allowing us to witness the impossible and harness its power. While some possessed greater portions of this extraordinary endowment, our modest share sufficed for the tasks at hand, sparing us from attracting undue attention, particularly from individuals like Morgan who preferred to remain inconspicuous. The repercussions of such unwarranted scrutiny could prove dire, indeed.
My son, Desmond, was already born with this ability, as his mother, Sandra, had trained him to be the next oracle, should the need arise for her return to the Gods. We fervently prayed that such a day wouldn't come soon. However, life has a cruel way of unfolding. As we bid our last farewells, we watched our mother transform one last time, sacrificing herself to divert Morgan's attention, allowing us to escape.
The scene was both heart-wrenching and awe-inspiring. But such as life. They both knew the moment the village has vanished that Sanda was dead and moved on into the world beyond. As we embraced one another tightly, our tears cascaded down our cheeks, fully aware of her absence and the overwhelming feeling of being utterly alone in this vast world. And now, it was our solemn responsibility to fulfill our sworn duty as undercover agents embedded within the formidable ranks of Morgan's army. Desmond resembled his father from a young age and was called "Da." Meaning a revered, loving father. He had long, fiery reddish-brown hair that shimmered in the sunlight. His determined blue eyes and resilient jawline showed his strength. Standing at six feet ten inches tall, he was only a foot shorter than his father. As he grew into a man, he eagerly prepared for marriage and looked forward to the summer solstice's maypole dance. He hoped to meet his future bride there. However, everything changed with Morgan's arrival and the subsequent proclamation. It shattered his chance of finding a bride and brought unhappiness to their once content village of Glenna. It also affected many other fathers and boys his age.
Everyone knew his father, Jarald Brandywine, for his hair - a mix of light and dark brown, then red - whereas his son Desmond inherited that coloring from his mother Sandra. Jarald had strong and broad shoulders, standing tall at six feet ten inches. He could effortlessly wield a sword in one hand and a heavy hammer in the other. His bright blue eyes, strong chiseled chin, and straight, but not pointy, nose completed his rugged appearance. During his youth, Desmond toiled alongside his Da on their farm, laboring under the scorching sun. The smell of turned soil combined with the chorus of chirping birds, filling the air as they skillfully crafted furniture in their workshop. People from far and wide, including royalty and prosperous individuals, sought their creations due to their renowned artistry and enduring quality. Now too, that was gone. So was his mother. Those were the days before his world changed and his true destiny began.
Once the agonizing sorting process begun, we embarked on a torturous journey. We were bound together like wild beasts, our legs weighed down by unforgiving iron chains. Our cruel taskmaster prodded us mercilessly, inflicting pain with every step.
Days turned into a blur as we stumbled along, unaware of our destination or when we would taste nourishment or quench our parched throats. The relentless pace allowed no respite, leaving us no choice but to endure the discomfort of holding back our bodily needs or defiling ourselves on the move. The cruelty inflicted upon us transcended all bounds of humanity. Even the horses and cattle accompanying us suffered no less. Life within the confines of the camp was a mere existence, defined by ceaseless toil and servitude. Our masters treated us as mere possessions, harboring nothing but pure hatred, while we labored for them as if we were their property.
Finally, after a long day of labor, we came to a stop. After a long day of labor, we stopped and took a moment to set up our camp and rest. But they did not grant us men, like myself and my son Desmond, any rest. Today, they instructed us to fight. As we entered the ring to face the giants, they handed us beaten swords of poor quality. These men were so merciless that even their smiles sent shivers down our spines. Yet, this was still better than the mindless tasks they had given us earlier - digging latrines, scrubbing pots, and performing meaningless labor. We were determined to fight, fueled by the knowledge of how to wield a sword and hoping to advance in rank, allowing us to cause more trouble and infiltrate their camp.
Desmond positioned himself, and Jarald stood beside him like his father. They lacked proper protective clothing, having had to burn most, if not all, of their garments. Their shoes had fallen apart, leaving many of them barefoot. Some of the men and boys went shirtless, using their torn shirts to cover the wounds on their feet as they walked on the hard, crusted ground. The sight of their ragged attire and the stench of sweat and dirt filled the air, mingling with the sounds of clashing swords and the roars of the crowd. They braced themselves, ready to face whatever came their way, fueled by a glimmer of hope and the determination to survive.
Thanks to the God's of Light giving them the knowledge and the strength to fight using weapons either swords, knives or staffs. And roundabout simple hand to hand combat. They could easily, without breaking a sweat go up against these men. Including dirty tricks if necessary All round them their captive audience was either betting, jeering as they spat at their feet calling them crude and repulsive names. They didn't care; they weren't here to win friends. They were to cause disorder among their ranks and free their captives. Jerald whispered over to his son Desmond to give them a show, but don't go easy on them either but don't most of all, let them think you are weak, but beaten.
Desmond nodded with a toothless smile where a guard had punched him in the mouth the previous day, causing him too loose two of his teeth. "Yes, Da, I know. We have been over this a million times." Desmond yelled, raising his battered and beaten sword that belong in the trash heap. " Time to meet your maker, scum! For the "Light" of the true God's of Light, for freedom to all!" Desmond struck hard and fast as the crowd went wild on their feet, watching him turn his opponent into mince meat. His sword broke, and he threw it at him, and beat the crap out of the man with his fists, watching him spit three teeth out where Desmond punched him. Desmond joined his father, going back-to-back as five burly men tried to surround them. Within five minutes they were on the ground in a pile, where Desmond and his father planted a barefoot on each of their opponent's chest, heaving and bloody claiming victory.
In truth, it was a step above slavery, offering slightly improved meals that brought a faint aroma of warmth and sustenance. Their shelter came in the form of a worn-out tent, its fabric frayed and weathered, but still providing a meager shield against the elements. The rough mat or a piece of carpet or rug they had to lie on was coarse and uncomfortable, the jagged texture pressing against their weary bodies. Yet, it spared them from the harsh sensation of the hard, cold ground beneath them. Choosing this alternative allowed them to avoid the constant discomfort of walking on sharp rocks, sparing their tired feet from the pain. And when the heavens opened up, the makeshift tent shielded them from the rain, preventing the chaotic mess of water droplets that would have soaked their belongings. It wasn't an ideal situation by any means, but it was undeniably better than the prospect of being captured, subjected to terrible food that offered no solace, and left with no place to call home.
The upcoming three fights posed a greater challenge for the fighters, as they would be going up against even bigger and more experienced opponents. However, if they managed to win these battles, they would earn the coveted reward of becoming new recruits in Morgans Dark Army. If you could call it a reward, the way Morgan treated his own men, but they need to be one of those men so they could infiltrate them and sow seeds of doubt among his men and set their plans in motion.
In truth, it was one step up from being a slave, but it least it came with better food, and a tent and moderate privacy. Even though the tent they received proved to be of poor quality, they had no choice but to use a rough mat or a piece of carpet or rug as their sleeping surface. By selecting this alternative, they were able to avoid the discomfort of lying on the hard, cold ground. By choosing this alternative, they avoided the inconvenience of stepping on every individual rock or dealing with a messy situation when it rained due to water droplets. Although it wasn't ideal, it was definitely better than being captured and having to endure terrible food and no place to stay.
Desmond grew up unaware of his true lineage and the power that lay within him until his 12th birthday. When his "gift of Sight" first manifested, like his mother Sandra, he showed signs of becoming an oracle like her. He spent his days honing his skills as a furniture craftsman, learning the trade from his parents and striving for perfection in every piece he created. Little did he know that his craftsmanship was not just a means of livelihood, but a preparation for his ultimate quest. We often spend our time at Morgan's Dark Army fulfilling the duties of crafting and mending camp furniture. On rare occasion, Desmond and his father had to fight in order to earn their own furnishings, since they didn't receive payment for their services or received very little payment.
As Desmond reached his adolescent years, he began to notice strange occurrences and vivid dreams that seemed to be more than mere figments of his imagination. His ears filled with louder whispers of ancient legends, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something far greater than himself intertwined his destiny.
During one fateful encounter with a mysterious old man, Desmond discovered his true purpose. The old man, a wise sage his name was Glen Terman's who had been watching over him from afar, disclosed the secrets of his heritage and the hidden mission that awaited him. Eventually, Glen and he formed a close friendship, which resulted in Glen taking on the role of Desmond's mentor and teacher and teaching him the intricacies of the oracle as they explored his new "Gifts of Sight" that allowed him to see the past, present and the future. With it he could help change and the outcome of things to come, providing if the Gods of Light had given him permission, with all things it came with great responsibility, knowing when to act and when not too. Sometimes, despite his desire to prevent certain outcomes, he had to allow them to unfold as they were written or gently guide them in the right direction. Other times it was his job to watch and record the history.
Desmond had a vision of the future during this specific period, which revealed that he was among the select few chosen to play a crucial role in the awakening of the legendary and powerful group known as the "Generals of Light." Against all odds, these fearless generals fearlessly confronted and fought against the encroaching darkness, demonstrating their unwavering commitment to protecting their people.
It was he who would have the privilege of announcing the birth of the White Solon. Signaling that the moment had finally come to reclaim what rightfully belonged to them, to diligently prepare and ready themselves for the arrival of the White Solon, and to restore "Light," truth, and freedom not just for themselves, but for all the realms and worlds within them.
Desmond's exploration of The Five Keys of Destiny led him to uncover ancient scrolls that provided additional wisdom. Upon uncovering this revelation, he developed a comprehension that these keys were not just imaginative anecdotes, but actually held deep and profound truths. These ancient artifacts, which were imbued with immense power, possessed the capability to restore balance and protect against the malevolent forces of evil. His mother, Sandra, one of the twelve Oracles, had guarded the secret of their whereabouts and had paid the ultimate price for her refusal to aid Morgan and his master Hess Lotti in their quest for the keys and the sacred artifacts that the God's of Light created.
Determined to honor his mother's sacrifice and fulfill his destiny, Desmond would embark on a perilous journey to find the Five Keys of Destiny. When the Gods of Light felt he was old enough and had learned enough to survive this treacherous journey. Because along the way, he would encounter allies and enemies, each with their own motives and desires for the key's power and the artifacts imbued with the Gods of Light power.
Desmond prepared for his new role as the first General of Light, his mind filled with a mixture of determination and trepidation. However, he soon learned that he would do most of his training serving alongside his father Jerald inside Morgan's Dark Army. Desmond understood the gravity of the situation and did not take the decision to wipe his memory and become immortal lightly. With the Gods of Light guiding him, he and his father devised a plan to infiltrate the ranks of the Shadow of Darkness, using their newfound "Gifts of Sight" to navigate the hidden realms and uncover the locations of the sacred relics before Morgan could find them and move them if necessary to prevent them from being discovered.
As the days turned into weeks, Desmond and his father trained tirelessly to harness their newfound powers, using their knowledge of the "Gift of Sight" given to them by the Gods of Light. Learning about the immense power that lay dormant within the relics as they slept and traveled from place to place among Morgan's Dark Army. The High Elders, particularly one named Baldwin and his wife Serene, would travel with them, unseen by the human eye, and teach them about these gifts, the abilities of the artifacts, and other great and marvelous things. Gaining knowledge of the working worlds and ancient languages from past and present to help them and others they would meet along the way. These artifacts held the key to restoring balance to all the realms and securing a future free from the clutches of darkness.
Driven by unyielding faith, Desmond and his father embarked on their journey alongside Morgans' Dark Army, their senses heightened as they navigated treacherous terrains and encountered countless trials. The Gods of Light remained their guiding force, their presence palpable. A mystical bird, known as the "dragon wing," soared through the sky, its snowy white feathers shimmering in the sunlight. With each appearance, it carried a silver flask, emitting a faint scent of jasmine containing a scroll adorned with intricate instructions from the gods. The parchment rustled as it unfurled, revealing guidance that led them to specific locations where aid and provisions awaited the people they had rescued. On rare occasions, the dragon wing bestowed upon them a map, unveiling hidden paths and shortcuts that would expedite their mission.
The sight of the dragon's majestic wing bursting into a dazzling display of starlight illuminating the night sky served as a breathtaking reminder of their divine purpose. It filled them with renewed vigor, fortifying their resolve in the face of adversity. This celestial spectacle was not just a symbol of the gods' presence, but a testament to their unwavering support. Each sign they received and every message they deciphered fueled Desmond and his father's determination, affirming that they were truly on a sacred path to bring light to a world enshrouded in darkness.
It was almost dark for their plan to begin to release some of the captives that Morgan had taken from the villages. They had been on the road nonstop for the last three days. However, no matter how beat they were. They dug deep into their reserves and discovered a newfound source of strength. According to their teacher Baldwin, tonight they were informed that there was a hidden cave located approximately ten miles away from their campsite. Baldwin informed them that upon their arrival at the designated spot, his wife would be there, prepared to rescue the captives and carefully guide them to a place of safety.
Desmond would take advantage of his exceptional ability to foresee events. He and his father, Jerald, would carefully assess the guards' weakest moments, considering their exhaustion mirrored ours. Being tired not only resulted in sloppiness, but it also gives them a chance to use a little magic, and they mean little. Due to the proximity of Morgan and Hess, the chances of their detection become significantly higher, thus raising the suspicion that one of the guards would be the cause of the magical warding being broken.
Among Morgan's men, relying on magic to summon a ball of light to find one's way in the dark became customary, unless one wanted to trip on a rock, fall into a pothole, or worse, get bitten by a snake. While some used it to illuminate their way, others found it useful for heating their meals or even for cleaning. It is important to note that the use of magic within the camp did not cause any concerns or raise alarms, as it was simply regarded as a normal part of everyday life.
It would be highly unlikely for anyone to suspect that Jerald and Desmond, who are new recruits in Morgan's Dark Army, would engage in any suspicious activities, especially considering the fact that they possess the extraordinary "gift of Sight." They are able to blend in seamlessly with the rest of the army, as if they were simply carrying out their routine nightly tasks.
It was almost laughable to think how easily these soldiers allowed themselves to be manipulated as they let their guard down. Being at the bottom of the ranks, Desmond and his father frequently had the responsibility of performing meaningless labor, which often involved tasks like carrying firewood or a bucket of slop, and this was something others would often witness. They consider this a good thing because it allowed them to go unnoticed anywhere inside the confines of the camp, and tonight they were going used that to their advantage.
Desmond and his father quickly dressed in their borrowed or better yet new-used clothes they had won from during their fights in the ring, now that they had patched and clean their new clothes and made their way to the kitchens to grab wood and the slop to feed the captive villagers. Desmond turned to his father and inquired if he was prepared for what lay ahead. In a gesture of mutual understanding, they exchanged nods and silently wished each other good luck.
After exchanging a simple nod with the guard stationed at the mess tent, they went their separate ways in order to gather the items for their respective tasks. Desmond and his father knew the way by heart, because it was one of their primary jobs thus far and hasn't earned in rank. With pride, they performed their duties, disregarding how the other soldiers perceived them as insignificant as worms, so low that even the worms would demand them to kneel at their feet.
Which was more than fine. It allowed them access to the captive villagers, and in truth that was exactly what they wanted. Most of all, they would go unseen, doing nothing important. The hard part would come when they take the villagers and then the true fun would begin. Jarald swiftly caught up with his son Desmond carrying two pails of slop, and his father Jarald who was pushing a cart loaded with firewood. Jarald cleverly "acquired" a couple of swords from some of Morgan's men, who are no longer with us and won't be present for roll call, and people will discover them dead come morning.
The sight of the headsman's axe, his partner's sword, and the severed head of the headsman hidden amidst the wood in the cart brought a twisted smile to his father's face, while his son couldn't help but laugh, as they both felt a deep satisfaction that true justice had been served. They believed it was crucial to make a sacrifice, and as fate would have it, the headsman of the camps—who derived immense joy from his position—faced his demise. He would cackle like a lunatic while mercilessly beheading innocent villagers, treating them as nothing more than bundles of firewood. Life had a knack for throwing Morgan into the midst of chaos. First, there was the shocking murder of his headsman and partner, which caused an uproar and a blame game among the rest of the group. And if that wasn't enough, the following morning brought yet another twist - the villagers they had recently taken captive had mysteriously disappeared.
With the anticipation building, Desmond's special gift would come into play, granting him the knowledge of which guards would be patrolling and the precise moments they would pass by certain areas. This valuable information would enable his father to navigate slowly and stealthily around the guards stationed at the holding pins where the captive villagers were confined, cleverly employing his magical abilities.
Taking his time, Desmond moved methodically around the tent, seeking shelter and relying on his unique gift of sight to peer into the future. He had a limited amount of time, just a small glimpse to be exact. If fortune smiled upon him, he anticipated a maximum timeframe of five minutes. This left him with the urgent task of swiftly transitioning from one location to the next, ensuring that he and his father completed a full rotation around the holding pins. Their objective was to render the guards unconscious with a potent sleeping spell, all the while taking extreme caution to avoid detection, as failure would result in the demise of their entire party. Desmond gave a nod to his father that first guard pointing to the one sharping his blade would be first. Pointing and counting on his fingers. One finger at a time after he entered the holding pin with his pails of slop.
Jerald stood tall; his unwavering gaze fixed on his son Desmond. Desmond cautiously entered the dilapidated holding pin, which had at least five to six guards at a time. The enclosure was nothing more than a barren expanse of dirt, roped-off and exposed to the merciless elements. The scorching sun beat down on their backs, the wind whipped through their ragged clothes. Most, if not all, were barefoot and shirtless. The women they had taken wore barely a dress, so poor that it would easily rip. The young boys and girls they had taken suffered the same fate. The stench of decay filled the air, constantly reminding them of the inhumane conditions they endured.
Morgan and his master, Hess, showed no concern for the captives' well-being, as long as they remained bound and obedient. The captives, all four hundred of them, were tightly shackled with iron chains, their wrists secured by cords. Long wooden beams confined them to the center of the camp. They sat in a circle, separated into small groups, their presence scattered across the holding pins. This arrangement made it easier for the soldiers and Morgan to count them, but it also added to their confinement and oppression. This particular pin, positioned at the farthest corner of the camp, emitted an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and desperation. The air was thick with the weight of their despair, a tangible and suffocating atmosphere.
As Jerald observed, he could hear the faint cries and murmurs of the imprisoned villagers, their voices carrying a mixture of hope and resignation. The guards stood watch, their presence looming over the captives, their footsteps echoing on the cold ground.
Their task was to feed the villagers and supply firewood to the guards, along with assigning menial duties that the camp's captains had deemed beneath their status. These tasks became the responsibility of the villagers, a way for them to earn their meager keep.
Jerald and his father had devised a plan, knowing that they couldn't release all the prisoners at once without arousing suspicion. Instead, they had to release prisoners slowly, letting a few go at a time, in a painful trickle that wouldn't raise alarm until they were done. It was a sad reality, but the only way to ensure the safety of those in dire need.
They let the prisoners know about the method and implemented a lottery system to determine who would be released first. The whispers circulated among the villagers as they toiled in the camp, passing on the news until everyone was aware of what was to come. Each time, a solemn group of twelve to fifteen villagers would gather in a circle, their hearts heavy with the weight of the situation. The air in the holding pin was thick with the musty smell, as Desmond effortlessly entered, followed by his father Jarald, who struggled with his cart of firewood. The sound of crackling logs being lifted one by one pierced through the tense atmosphere, intensifying the moment.
As Desmond carefully poured the contents into the first bowl, the guard's knife slipped from his grasp, crashing onto the ground with a resounding clang. A wave of frustration escaped his lips, filling the air with a metallic tang. Meanwhile, Desmond's fingers silently counted to three, and at Jarald's command, the word "hesnara" slipped from his lips. The first guard blinked repeatedly, his dagger still clenched in his hand, seemingly unaffected by the strange occurrence. Jarald, undeterred, waved his hand in front of the guard's face, but his eyes remained distant and misted over.
Jarald, his heart heavy with doubt, cautiously approached the guard, whose eyelids drooped as if weighed down by a drowsy trance. He hesitated for a fleeting moment, then gently tapped the guard's cheeks, feeling the coolness of his skin against his fingertips. It was a chilling indication that the enchantment had firmly taken hold. Confirming his suspicions, Jarald realized that the guard was undeniably under the spell's powerful influence. To everyone else, the guard's appearance would suggest that he was awake and dutifully performing his assigned task. However, Jarald realized that the guard was undeniably under the powerful influence of the spell until he released him. The guard remained trapped, unable to cease his actions or even remember why he was compelled to do them.
With a satisfied smile playing on his lips, Jarald confidently approached the next guard, his voice filled with assurance as he repeated the incantation "hesnara." As he pointed towards the stack of firewood that laid in his cart, the scent of burning logs permeated the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the wood burning from the guards' fire. "Be a good lad and unload this for me," he instructed, his words carrying a gentle but firm tone. The guard's-tired eyes blinked in response, his heavy lids struggling to stay open. He fixed his gaze solely on the task at hand, lost in a sea of monotony. The prisoners, their hearts pounding with anticipation, anxiously awaited their long-awaited freedom. The air, thick and suffocating, carried the palpable tension that hung in the stifling atmosphere.
The oblivious guard remained unaffected by the curious glances from both his fellow guards and the prisoners. He immersed himself in his task, feeling the rough texture of the wood with his fingertips. The repetitive motion consumed every sense of his being. Meanwhile, Desmond approached the third guard, patiently waiting as he counted down the moments that he had foreseen in a brief glimpse of the guard's future. Sensing that he would require help, Desmond had been practicing a unique language with his woodland squirrel friends for nearly two hours during his study session with his teacher Baldwin.
With delicate clicks and a soft squirrel chirp resonating through the air, he was able to communicate his desires to the small creature. Raising his hand to stall his father until he was ready to move forward, Jarald waited, his eyes fixed on the guard or should he say his next victim, watching him stumble, wondering why then seeing the reason. Out of nowhere, one of his woodland companions sent a large branch the size of a club crashing down from above, causing a soft noise as it fell to the ground. It narrowly missed hitting the guard on the head, leaving him startled and momentarily distracted. The earthy scent of damp soil mingled with the fresh fragrance of leaves filled the air, as the fallen branch released a burst of woody aroma.
The third guard approached, his eyes widening as he saw the freshly fallen branch on the ground, narrowly missing him. With a quizzical look, his father joined him and uttered, "Hesnara." Both guards blinked in confusion, turning to face him. Desmond and his father exchanged a knowing smile, savoring the sight before them. The two guards stood; their faces twisted in anticipation.
Jarald's words cut through the air, his voice laced with a mix of amusement and cruelty. "Grab those clubs and pummel each other relentlessly until you can no longer stand." The guards, with a solemn nod, acknowledged his command, their eyes gleaming with a distinct lack of mercy towards each other. Their willingness to carry out the task was clear, even though they remained unaware of the reasons behind it and oblivious to the presence of others. With each branch they picked up, the sound of wood scraping against the dirt echoed throughout the area. The harsh blows landed, each strike accompanied by grunts and the sickening thud of flesh meeting wood. The air filled with the metallic tang of sweat and the pungent scent of aggression. Desmond and his father watched, their amusement growing as the guards mercilessly battered each other, their bodies withstanding the relentless assault. They doubted they even felt the pain, thinking it was a dream.
The resounding thwacks echoed through the air, their impact reverberating with a bone-crushing force. Grunts and groans intertwined with the sounds, creating a symphony of combat. The commotion instantly grabbed the attention of the remaining two guards on duty, who hurried over, their footsteps pounding on the ground. Jerald, his mischievous grin widening, repeated the word "hesnara" as he reached into his cart. With a macabre delight, he retrieved the severed head of the headsman, its lifeless eyes staring into the void. "Catch, lads!" he exclaimed, tossing the grim trophy with a flick of his wrist. The toothless guards grinned toothlessly in response, their gnarled hands reaching out to catch the grotesque object. They treated it like a macabre ball, their laughter mingling with the scent of sweat and blood that hung in the air.
Meanwhile, Desmond took advantage of the guards' preoccupation. He crept; his steps silent as he made his way towards the captive villagers. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of adrenaline and determination fueling his actions. With careful precision, he freed each villager, his fingers deftly manipulating the rune magic that broke their chains. As he released the villagers, they fell to the ground, trembling with relief. There were fifteen of them in total, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope and the first to go, as the other three sets waited for their turn anxiously knowing their freedom was at hand.
Amidst the chaos, the guards remained oblivious. One sharpened his dagger, the metallic scrape of blade against stone filling the air. The other meticulously stacked and re-stacked firewood, the sound of wood clashing against wood creating a rhythmic pattern. The two guards, lost in their own tasks, were completely unaware of the unfolding escape. The villagers watched with bated breath, their bodies tensed as they seized the opportunity to slip away, their freedom unfolding before them like a fragile dream.
The hushed instructions echoed through the village, urging the curious villagers to remain silent and swift. Amidst the rustling leaves, they witnessed graceful woodland deer emerging, their presence a secret signal to guide them towards the concealed cave. Baldwin's wife, the beacon of safety, awaited their arrival. The deer's gentle hoofbeats masked their tracks, obscuring any trace left for Morgan's men. As they distanced themselves from danger, Desmond and his father spoke urgently, their voices a mixture of relief and determination. No need for elaborate explanations, just the assurance of newfound freedom and a secure haven away from Morgan's grasp. Bittersweet, it was for Desmond and his father to return to the enemy's camp, yet their mission was to liberate their fellow villagers and sow seeds of discord among Morgan's soldiers.
As Desmond and his father made their way back, the first rays of dawn painted the sky with hues of pink and orange. The weary duo had freed approximately fifty villagers, leading to multiple trips back and forth. When they returned, it was no surprise to find the diligent guards still performing their assigned tasks, except for a pair locked in a brutal brawl. The sickening sounds of fists connecting echoed through the air, creating a dissonant symphony of violence.
The attacker, who was actually their comrade, inflicted such damage that both guards ended up in diSar'sray, their faces covered in blood and their bodies barely conscious. The headsman's once recognizable face was now a grotesque mess, leaving no doubt of his demise. Blood splatters from the severed head adorned the guards, damning them as if they were the ones responsible for the gruesome murder.
Jarald, seizing the opportunity, strategically placed the blood-soaked ax near a nearby tree. In a voice that reverberated through the tense atmosphere, he uttered a single word, "Teraanesta!" The spell broke, causing the guards to collapse in a heap on the ground, succumbing to a sudden and deep slumber.
The scene filled with a mixture of relief and eerie silence, disturbing only the soft snores of the incapacitated guards. Desmond and his father had just arrived back at their tent when Morgan stormed out, seething with anger. His fury was so intense that lightning threshed the ground. His voice boomed like thunder as he summoned his men, demanding answers with no hint of politeness. It was hard to suppress the smiles and stifled chuckles, knowing that they were the cause of the chaos unfolding before them.
The guards on duty failed to provide any excuses for why more than half of them were drenched in blood, their uniforms-stained crimson, with two of them covered in the headsman's blood, while his severed head rested upon them and his ax lay nearby. The metallic scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the acrid stench of fear. And if things couldn't have gotten worse, a large portion of villagers were gone, counting proximity to fifty or more, their shackles empty. The echoes of their terrified cries still reverberated in the silence. To make matters even more peculiar, they had all fallen asleep while on guard duty.
The situation was dire, and Morgan's anger surpassed fury; it was something beyond that, a seething rage that threatened to consume everything in its path. The day, however, was undeniably beautiful. The golden sunlight bathed the scene, casting long, eerie shadows on the ground. The scent of promotion lingered in the air, a tantalizing promise of power and recognition, as the five guards either met their demise or became the new prisoners, rewarded with the task of digging graves for their fallen comrades.
Meanwhile, Morgan and Hess Lotti grew bolder in their pursuit of the relics. They were determined to seize the power for themselves and unleash chaos upon the realms. Their relentless search brought them closer to deciphering the clues left behind by the Generals of Light, and time was running out for Desmond and his father. More so for Hess, which was considered a good thing for us and a bad thing for Morgan.
But the Gods of Light reassured them that their moment would come. They would know when the time was right to reveal themselves and aid in the battle against the Shadow of Darkness. Until then, Desmond and his father remained hidden, observing from the shadows and gathering crucial information. As the days and weeks wore on, blending into a hazy blur, Desmond and his father toiled ceaselessly, their exhaustion clear in their bloodshot eyes and weary bodies. The villagers they freed numbered only around a hundred, leaving Morgan seething with frustration. No matter how many guards he stationed to watch over them, they continued to vanish without a trace. And now, even the guards themselves were missing, either meeting their demise or fleeing in the darkness, driven by fear of Morgan's wrath or the scarcity of food and riches he had promised.
The men in his army shunned any form of promotion, knowing that failure in their duties would result in instant, unquestioned execution. Each passing day witnessed a gradual decline in Morgan's once formidable army. With no replacements for the fallen or disappeared villagers, his men's faith in his leadership waned, leading to whispered ridicule behind his back. The once fearsome Morgan had become all bark and no bite.
Desmond and his father embarked on a perilous journey. They encountered treacherous creatures, their snarls and hisses echoing through the air, while the powerful enchantments hummed with a mystical energy.
Amidst the darkness, Desmond embraced his newfound identity as the first General of Light and did so as a spy inside Morgan's Dark Army. He radiated hope, a beacon cutting through the shadows. Day by day, his powers as an Oracle intensified, surging through his veins like a current of electricity. Some whispered that he had surpassed his mother Sandra, his strength rivaling hers. His connection to the Gods of Light deepened, their presence felt in every fiber of his being. He understood the weight of his responsibility, knowing that the fate of the realms and worlds rested upon his shoulders. He steeled himself, ready to face any challenge that lay ahead.
The impending battle against the Shadow of Darkness loomed closer, and Desmond and his father were prepared to make any sacrifice necessary to keep the relics from falling into enemy hands, even if it meant laying down their own lives. The Gods of Light had entrusted them with a monumental task, and they would not falter.
The people of the realms lived in constant fear, their hearts heavy with the knowledge that each passing day brought them closer to the inexorable grip of subjugation. Morgan and Hess
Lotti reveled in their sadistic control, cruelly forcing the enslaved populations to bow before them, ruthlessly stripping away their freedom and autonomy. However, amidst this despair, a glimmer of hope began to emerge. A small group of rebels, bound together by their unwavering determination, secretly planned their resistance, aiming to overthrow the tyrannical rule of Morgan and Hess. Despite the grave risks they faced, the immense suffering endured by their people propelled them forward.
The realms yearned for the day when they could finally bring an end to Morgan's tyranny. With each passing day, the anticipation grew stronger as the rebels clandestinely gathered strength and knowledge, meticulously preparing for the impending battle that would determine the fate of their worlds. The realms longed for liberation, for the day when the people would no longer have to live in perpetual fear, and when Morgan and his master would finally face justice for the devastation they had wrought.
Everywhere Morgan went, his chilling proclamation pierced the air, demanding that all able-bodied men serve in his "Dark Army" to fight against the "Army of Light," or face execution for treason. The sound of despair echoed through the villages, reverberating from one devastated family to another as they faced the unimaginable choice of sacrificing their loved ones or losing their own lives. Even young boys, their hands trembling as they awkwardly grasped swords, were not exempt from this cruel fate.
The air was thick with tension, each breath filled with the weight of their families' uncertain fate. However, unbeknownst to Morgan, after many weeks of careful planning, Desmond and his father Jarald silently moved through the night, extracting the captured townspeople under the cloak of darkness. The feeling of relief and hope surged through their hearts as they rescued more and more individuals, evading Morgan's watchful eye. And with each successful operation, his rage grew, fueling his desperate search for those responsible for defying his reign.
With each passing day, Morgan's frustration turned into a burning determination to unravel the web of deceit that surrounded the camp. The camp suffered greatly without the labor of the missing prisoners, as daily chores and tasks went undone. Morgan knew he had to act swiftly before more prisoners and guards vanished or were discovered dead, as time was running out.
He meticulously studied every detail of the disappearances, mapping out patterns and connecting dots that others had overlooked.
His loyal guards and captains, whom he had entrusted with maintaining order, had become complacent and neglectful in their duties. The camp was in diSar'sray, with essential tasks such as repairing tents and weapons left undone. The soldiers felt abandoned and demoralized, their loyalty wavering as they witnessed the crumbling state of their once formidable army.
With a calculated strategy, he alternated between a calm and empathetic approach, hoping to gain their trust and extract information. However, when this failed, he unleashed a more aggressive stance, using intimidation tactics to force submission. The once fierce and proud guards and captains had now become disheartened and weary. Their bodies bore the scars of countless battles fought under Morgan's command, and yet their loyalty remained unyielding.
Having experienced the cruelty and ruthlessness that consumed him, they knew well that their lives were hanging by a thread, entirely dependent on his whims. Hunger relentlessly gnawed at their empty bellies, causing their gaunt faces to mirror the depths of desperation that consumed their daily lives.
Each passing day, his trust in his guards dwindled, and he began to question whether any of them were truly loyal to his cause. The weight of his responsibilities bore down heavily on him, as he knew that one wrong move could lead to the downfall of everything he had worked so hard to build. Desperation consumed him, driving him to push his guards further, hoping to uncover the truth before it was too late.
Morgan and his master Hess spent centuries building an army, recruiting loyal and skilled individuals for their dark agenda. However, the resistance group always stayed one step ahead, evading capture and striking strategic blows against Morgan's forces. Rumors spread of secret meetings, encrypted messages, and a charismatic leader inspiring unwavering loyalty. Morgan knew he had to act swiftly before the resistance gained more support and challenged his control. Desperation grew as he feared losing everything he had worked for. Finding and eliminating the resistance leaders was crucial to maintain his reign and prevent the Gods of Light from triumphing. Morgan would do whatever it took to crush the resistance and secure his place as a new and powerful god ruling over all worlds and realms.
Morgan pondered his options, feeling the weight of desperation settling upon him. The scarcity of food had pushed him to the brink of madness, and now the realization of his own foolishness was sinking in. The curse he had unleashed upon the lands and realms was backfiring, not only affecting the inhabitants but also his own army and himself. The once formidable dark army was now crumbling under the weight of sickness and decay, leaving Morgan with no prisoners to do the work and discontent festering within the ranks.
His master, Hess, was deteriorating rapidly, his health worsening with each passing day. Morgan knew he had to find a solution, but it seemed impossible. The quest for the five keys and the artifacts, which held the power to change their fate, had to be put on hold. There was no way he could continue without a steady supply of food and a functioning army.
Morgan's thoughts turned to the prophecy that foretold the birth of the White Solon and the Dark Prince, the individuals who held the key to unlocking the artifacts' true power. However, he had no clues, no map, nothing to lead him to these future would-be saviors. The artifacts themselves were useless in his hands. Only the White Solon could wield their power, and even then, they had to give them to him willingly.
As he sat along the cliffs, gazing out at the vast sea of Quartza, Morgan contemplated his next move. People said that the King of All Living Water lived in the depths of this ocean. However, locating him and gaining an audience seemed like an impossible task. King Salsern was unlikely to grant him an audience willingly, and Morgan had no idea where to even begin searching for the underwater kingdom.
But revenge was not Morgan's chief concern at the moment. The acrid scent of urgency filled the air as he embarked on his quest to find the elusive King Salsern. Legends whispered of the King's wisdom, his ability to harness the ancient magic that pulsated within the depths of the Quartza sea. Rumors painted a portrait of a man who held the knowledge of the Stone Glass Heart, its true power a mystery to all but him. The treacherous journey to the Quartza sea awaited, its depths teeming with monstrous creatures and unknown perils.
Yet Morgan, a powerful wizard, paid no mind to the lurking dangers. Confidence surged through his veins, for he believed himself to be as formidable as the very Gods themselves. The scent of damp earth filled the air as he stood, overlooking the vast expanse of the hidden underwater kingdom. The distant sound of crashing waves echoed in his ears, a constant reminder of the power that lay beneath the surface.
However, Morgan's master, Hess, had warned him that without the artifact, the Stone Glass Heart, in his possession, the doorway to this mystical realm and the path would not yield itself to him. In light of the history of hostility between them and the fact that the King and his master Hess were the ones who mercilessly slaughtered nearly all of his family in the previous wizard war, it was clear that there was no purpose in making any effort to gain an audience with the King. Attempting to ask for a favor in order to heal him or find a solution, and then supplying him with the essential scrolls or information to wield the artifact of the Stone Glass Heart, would be nothing short of a fool's errand.
No, the best and only way to obtain the information was to eliminate the King of the Living Water and seize his kingdom, taking control in his absence. Without that artifact, the underwater realm would remain concealed. However, if he could offer a bribe that the king couldn't resist … Morgan's gaze shifted towards his master's tent, contemplating that if he was destined to die anyway, he might as well gain something from it.
Morgan had faithfully served his master for years, carrying out every command without hesitation. But over time, he grew resentful of the burdens placed upon him. The constant secrecy, the weight of the curse, and the responsibility of acquiring the artifacts had taken its toll. The rough fabric of his cloak scratched against his skin, a constant reminder of his servitude. Morgan longed for freedom, to pursue his own desires and ambitions. And now, armed with the knowledge he had acquired, an opportunity presented itself to break free from his master's control.
He understood that sacrificing his master would not only liberate him from his grasp but also provide a chance to attain more power and knowledge. It was a perilous decision, yet Morgan was willing to take the risk. The scent of damp earth and moss permeated the air, mingling with the lingering aroma of burning incense from his master's tent. The dim moonlight, with its haunting glow, cast eerie shadows that seemed to dance upon the shores of the cliffs overlooking the vast expanse of the ocean beneath them. As Morgan stood there, he could feel the weight of the night pressing against his skin, creating a sense of heaviness that seemed to envelop him in a thick silence. The only sound that broke through this silence was the relentless crush of the waves against the rocks.
Meticulously, he began to devise a plan to bring about the downfall of his beloved master and rid himself of the burden that the dark army had become. The cool breeze gently brushed against his face as he stood in the clearing, sending a shiver down his spine like a cautionary message. He knew he must exercise caution, as any misstep could lead to disaster. The sound of twigs snapping beneath his boots reverberated through the stillness, serving as a reminder of the path he was about to embark upon. Yet Morgan remained determined to succeed, to cast aside a life of servitude and shape his own destiny. With a newfound sense of purpose, he retreated into his tent to strategize and prepare for the pivotal moment that would alter everything.