The Destruction of Triel - A painting depicting the ruin of that fair city - Artist unknown
Rebels swarmed the city of Triel like ants that had discovered a carcass, and indeed, the city was dead. A dozen factions had risen together, putting aside their differences in order to take the city. The royalty had fled to the stronghold of Cuaph, where they were already preparing for the inevitable siege, but that day was a day of celebration for the revolutionaries. Pillaging, looting, and copious drinking took place throughout the night.
Three soldiers, in particular, were especially heavy drinkers. Rumor had it the army would stay put for at least three days, and so Alcierre, Syvan, and Quori saw no reason to skimp on the drink.
They were simple men. Alcierre and Syvan, two Chiarian farmers who had heard of the daring revolution of Iryx. Upon seeking out more information, a rebel recruiter had waxed eloquent on the wonders of democracy, the power of the people, and the freedoms they would enjoy if they were willing to fight for this cause. To Alcierre and Syvan, this had amounted to ‘no taxes’, and they had signed up on the spot. Only Quori seemed to have any idea what he was fighting for, but fighting appeared to be the only thing the burly Saartan cared for in the first place.
The three of them awoke in an abandoned side-street, clutching stolen heirlooms to their chests. They immediately set off in search of alcohol on the theory it would counteract their massive headaches. They found a small keg in the broken remains of a tavern, and quickly split it open, spilling half the contents on the floor. They each drank deeply from the cask, soaking their beards as they guzzled the cheap ale. Hangovers forgotten in the wash of drunkenness, the inebriated trio stumbled off into the streets, just sober enough to keep an eye out for officers.
For most of the morning, the three wandered the streets of the conquered city, exaggerating their bravery in battle, ransacking the deserted dwellings, and clumsily tossing their rocks at any cats that crossed their path. Eventually, the drunkards came across their fate, standing in the middle of the road.
Two silent figures stood before them, male and female in form, simple robes of dark gray, matching their skin. Bonded Dark Ones are a very rare occurrence, an anomaly in the otherwise solitary race. Although the human mind cannot comprehend the ways of the Dark Ones, the affection showed between a bonded pair is evident.
“What’s this?” slurred Quori in broken Salliae. “Get out of road, imbecile.”
The pair remained motionless, eyes closed as they swayed slightly. The two held hands. Quori scowled, confused, and waved his spear in their general direction.
“I say move, now move!” he barked. No response.
“Do you think they’re deaf?” asked Syvan, the least inebriated of the group. “Or maybe they don’t know Salliae?”
“I think they look like Karodans,” spat Alcierre. “What do they think they’re doing here?”
“No, no, Karodans are brown. These two are grayer than that.”
“Who are they, then?” Alcierre challenged. Quori took a step closer, spear at the ready now.
“I think they might be stormwights. You remember the stories? Dark Ones?” Syvan answered. Alcierre blinked as he searched for the memories through his addled brain, but quickly gave up.
“Can’t recall that I do. Wait, what’s that buzzing?” Alcierre asked, shaking his head as if to dislodge the sensation. Syvan could feel it too, now that he thought about it. Slightly more sober than the others, he even thought he could hear some sort of message behind it. Something about the course of nature…
While the Chiarians had been talking, Quori had been slowly advancing on the Dark Ones. He stared into the face of the female one through bleary eyes. She looked normal enough to him, if her skin hadn’t been slate gray. Her eyes opened unexpectedly, and he stumbled backwards, dropping his spear on the ground.
He couldn’t look away from her eyes. They were deep, and dark, but beneath the surface was a thunderstorm. The sunny cobblestone street faded away as her gaze filled his vision, somehow becoming impossibly large. There was lightning there, and stormclouds, billowing and flowing through the endless skies. Memories of rain and hail and nature leapt into his mind unbidden, somewhat muted by the ale he had imbibed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deep there, deeper than him or any man that ever lived.
The trance was broken as his companions hands reached to lift him up. Quori angrily slapped their hands away, leaping to his feet as best he could, and whipping out his long-handled Saartan sword. The sudden sense of insignificance frightened him like nothing else he’d ever faced, and he had to do something.
“It is witchcraft!” he cried, rage rising within him. He lapsed back to his native tongue, cursing her vehemently. The Dark Ones merely stared at him expressionlessly, complete serenity on their features. This only infuriated the Saartan more. He charged forward, swinging his warriors weapon before him. Syvan, remembering the old tales, rushed forwards to stop him, but Alcierre stepped into his way.
“Let him do it,” he scoffed. “Witches or wights, I don’t like them either way.”
“Wait!” Syvan called. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”
Quori whirled around, staring defiantly at Syvan. “You protect witches?” he demanded.
“No, but-” he began, but was interrupted by Alcierre.
“Do it!” he said. “Before she puts a curse on us!”
The female made no resistance as Quori turned and plunged his sword into her stomach. Quori drew his sword back, surprised at the lack of blood, and the Dark One fell to the ground, her hand slipping out of her partner’s. She calmly drew a final shuddering breath, and closed her eyes for the final time.
No emotions showed on the male’s face, but a bitter cry of agony swept through every mind in the city, piercing through even the muddled minds of the three soldiers. Around the city, rebels were clutching their ears in a vain attempt to stop the terrible cries, while the more empathic men fell to the ground in agony.
Syvan, the only one who knew what was going on, began to flee, but despite going his fastest, he knew it would not be enough.
•••
Ten miles eastward, an old man stands watch over his small herd of goats. Pheir has been watching the smoke rise from Triel, and knows both that the city has been taken, and that it makes little difference to him, secluded as he is in the bluffs.
Beyond the city, the shepherd can make out the narrow bridge of land on which Triel lies. A sharp set of eyes can make out Cuaph near the on the other side, if the weather is clear enough.
Suddenly, a bright flare of light catches the old man’s eye. In amazement, he watches as a great ring of flame bursts from a point near the center of the city, swallowing Triel in a torrent of fire. As smoke begins to rise from the city, a sudden gust of wind catches Pheir unprepared. His hat is swept off of his head, but he cannot take his eyes off the blazing disk that is scorching Triel. The winds quickly become stronger, as a swirl of fire begins to form at the heart of the city. Although Pheir has heard of tornadoes, never before has he seen Virassa’s Spear. His aging eyes manage to make out what must be enormous buildings tossed for miles before crashing to the ground. He sees an enormous timber fly through the air and embed itself into the ground not half a mile away, and begins to fear for his safety.
The pillar of fire grows, threatening to spread to the countryside, and Pheir is torn between staying to watch or seeking shelter. His decision is made for him when the earth begins to tremble beneath his feet, sending the goats stampeding southward, away from the doomed city. Pheir begins to follow them as best he can while looking over his shoulder. Massive cracks rupture the ground, extending to a near perfect circle around the city. Then the city collapses, sinking into the ground, perfectly concave, as if the land bridge were crushed underneath an enormous bowl.
Then the winds begin to die away, and the sea rushes in, cleansing the charred earth, flattening all in its path, and eventually covering all remains of Triel’s existence. After the shepherd is safely away, he drops to his knees and begins to praise the gods for sparing him.
•••
To this day, the city of Triel lies under the waves, ruined forever due to the carelessness of the three soldiers whose names were lost to history. The rebel cause died that day, along with it’s soldiers, but Cuaph, now an island stronghold, survived.
It was quickly guessed what happened, and from every mouth the message spread:
The course of nature cannot be stopped. Do not disturb the Dark Ones.
