Age of Chaos - Lazaron

Introduction

So it came to be that people found one another and began carving a new life out of the ruins of the old. Many years passed and much was forgotten just as much was learned. All seemed well in Lazaron, however, they were unaware of the darkness brewing and plotting against them in the land of Karatta.

As the forces of the Horde moved into the unsuspecting Lazaron, with Dekatar at the head, the races of Karatta were thrown into a greedy political war over who would own what of the lands they had gone to conquer. As the Legions began their single minded task of destruction, the people of Lazaron united for survival. At the time when their gods were needed most, they seemed no where to be found. Powerless against such demands for new life, the Aspects including Xaltion were forced to sit and watch as their worshipers died and their powers dwindled with each decaying soul.

This was an age of War and suffering. An age where the present was so bleak, that the thought tomorrow may never come was a blessing. An age where blood was a common sight, and the sound of mourning resonated throughout the lands. An age where gods were powerless, and weapons held the only salvation. This was the age of Chaos.

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The year was 675 A.X., the season was autumn. Centuries had passed since the Rending and so had much from the people’s memory. Those of Lazaron had learned to adapt to their new fate with their new Aspects. Many would think that things might actually be getting better. But they were unaware of the shadow that loomed over them and the darkness that poured into their lands. Children dreamed of the year’s fruit harvest and the jellies and pastries they would yield. Adults worried about their preparations for the coming winter. Furthest from their minds were the words of the old man, Lazaron, who had come to them 75 years earlier. It would not be long before the old man’s voice was ringing in their ears once again, this time from the grave.

It was just before dusk when they came upon an unaware Desta. Orcs, Ogres and Goblins, wild-eyed Humans, strange looking elf-like creatures, and twisted looking Dwarves and Gnomes. They came, thousands of them, pouring into the streets of Desta, the peaceful village of the Sprites. Where they came from or why, the Sprites had no time to ask or ponder. Dozens fell dead even as the first sounds of the alarm were raised. The Sprites attempted to bring up their magical barrier, only rarely used against larger than normal attacks of rift spawn, but it was too late. The main Barrier holders died almost instantly to strange, vile magic and arrows. Having dealt with rift spawn for some years, the village’s defenses were still not adequate enough to deal with the destruction that bore down on them now. Never before had any seen such a force, nor had any a name for the monsters that killed them.

Some 50 or 60 Sprites who were among those that managed to survive the initial attack, formed small groups and scattered in all directions knowing that the other people of Lazaron would be caught just as unaware as they had been. In a valiant attempt to warn other villages and towns of the impending attacks, only 2 of these groups managed to make it to Chelsa and Laraville. Many Sprites remained in Desta, unable to escape before the town became surrounded. Women, children, the elderly and men, all barricaded in their crude underground temple, putting forth a grand effort with their astute magical abilities, only to perish within two days time against the relentless push of their attackers.

As the ragtag band of Sprites who made it to Laraville entered the village, many of the Humans were shocked to even see them. Sprites rarely left their home, but when they did, it was rarely in groups larger than two. They immediately spoke to those the town called its council, and told them everything they could about the terror that had befallen Desta. Riders were sent out from Laraville to Qwaylan, Chelsa, and Opstantinopian. All were given instructions to stop at any other small settlements and give them instructions to head to Laraville. The riders sent to Chelsa were never seen again. The gnomes quickly sent word to Avendae and Quenae and as the races began to gather in and fortify their towns for battle, the Horde began to move across the land like a sickness, destroying everything it came in contact with. The short time of awareness would seem for not. It was only a matter of days after hearing of the Legion's existence that the cities were then face to face with the plight war.

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In the mountain City of Chelsa, a handful of badly wounded Sprites were met with suspicion by the Dwarves. After hours of questioning by the community, the Dwarves finally made what preparations possible for the battle that was soon to come. The Sprites that were healthy enough attempted to lend their magical abilities to the effort. But they soon found themselves to be standing against a force they had never before seen or could possibly fathom the strength of. The Legions were relentless, attacking day and night, coming in waves that never seemed to end. Within three days time the Dwarves retreated, collapsing the only entry tunnel into their city and barricading themselves within the mountain. Those who did not perish and were still of fighting ability took to the underground river passages heading toward Laraville. The remaining others took to the passages heading toward Quenae.

During this time, Qwaylan, home of the Tree Elves, was benefited slightly due to its remoteness. Immediately after hearing from the riders that came from Laraville, and knowing that the farmlands around the town supplied much of the food to the lands, they sent as many groups as possible to the human village to help head off or stall the attacks. Abandoning their village, those who were unable to fight left to travel the western coast, hoping to find refuge and avoid the chaos somewhere along the way. As the Hordes reached Qwaylan, the few stragglers who had chosen to remain behind were killed; their village set to fire.

Opstantinopian reacted to the news in much the same way as Qwaylan did. Once the Gnomes were informed, a few groups took what materials they deemed useful and made the trek to Laraville, avoiding as much of the advancing Legion as they possibly could. They also collapsed the tunnels that led into the inner part of their mountain home in an effort to keep their mechanical inventions safe from enemy hands. The remaining Gnomes set the many traps contained along the outer perimeter of their village before heading into a tunnel that took them halfway down the mountainside. They then climbed the rest of the way to get to Avendae, the home of the Pixies, their close friends and neighbors.

As for Quenae, the High Elves shipped off their young and elderly on boats to seek safety with the sea, however their fate is yet unknown for they never returned. Other preparations that could be made to protect the valued items and books the city harbored were made, but it was widely known that the elves would not hold off this army of creatures alone. A joint effort must be made by all, or all would fall. The majority of the remaining High Elves went to Laraville via their boats, which were known to be the fastest in the land. Those that could not fit on the boats headed for the Human village remained in Quenae, continuing to do whatever they thought could help to protect their fair city. Many of them took the most valued and priceless books and artifacts and buried them. Others set them in waterproof containers and rowed them far off shore to be dropped into the Sea of Levia for Xaltion to guard.

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The Pixies of Avendae at the time were seen as a race to be protected, and they kept to their forest homes, welcoming the Gnomes as though they were there on a routine visit. The Gnomes, who had always enjoyed the quaint little town of Avendae, were suddenly saddened by the villages’ lack of defenses and the Pixies’ seemingly carefree attitude about ‘silly monsters’ coming to destroy their homes. Despite the Gnomes efforts, they feared they would perish there with the Pixies, as the village seemed almost impossible to defend.

As the Horde of Chaos reached Laraville, the Human village had two great advantages. The town itself was built upon an enormous hill affording it an expansive view and an ideal defensive position. It was also a port town and most humans were farmers, so there was a great store of food and fresh water, as well as an abundance of weaponry made available from all the traveling merchants at the time. The mix of Humans, Sprites, Tree Elves, and Gnomes who had arrived just a day before the Legions, used the high log walls that surrounded Laraville to line their ranged attacks. With the mechanical genius of the Gnomes, the magical force of the Sprites, the accuracy of the Tree Elf bows, and the Humans renowned tenacity, they held the village for a time, but with great loss.

When the first small waves of the Chaos Legions attacked, they were subdued within a day by the defenders. By the time the second and larger wave reached the city, the Dwarves who had arrived at the port from Chelsa joined the fray. From this moment forward, the races of Lazaron were truly united in a single cause - survival. And survive they would. Two months is how long Laraville withstood the never-ending attacks. Two entire months of slaughter, with each new day raising the death toll even higher. There was no respite; the Legions never ceased in their advances. Bodies of the dead from both sides littered the hillside in a gory display of loss.

It became evident there was no way to win this war. There was no end in sight, and the supplies were dwindling away. It was decided that they must find a way out of the town, or they all would die. The port was soon taken and Laraville was virtually surrounded. It seemed hopeless and spirits began to sink as the enemy pushed harder at the heavily fortified defenses. It was then that those who had kept to the shadows stepped forward and revealed something very few knew about. Laraville was indeed built upon a large hill, but the hill was also mostly hollow. Smugglers lead women and children to the safety of the tunnels beneath the village that eventually wound down to a small underground pond. Boarding small skiffs to overflowing, they traveled a shallow waterway that eventually took them by the cover of forest into the Marsh of Siena. In time the marsh funneled into a stream, shallow but adequate, that led the survivors through little known or explored waterways under Mt. Clearwater and finally into Clearwater Lake. They then followed South Figlan’s Run River down to Quenae.

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As more and more of the people began to retreat into the smuggling tunnels, a brave and doomed band of 20 remained to fight at Laraville, to ensure the Legions would not know of the escape plan. Outnumbered and alone, they perished and Laraville was finally lost. Of the initial ten thousand or so souls that held Laraville, just over four thousand survived the battle and escaped to Quenae where the High Elves had been holding off small bands of the Horde’s main force for the last two months. But upon hearing that Laraville was lost, they knew the Legions would be coming in full force. Having depleted their population vastly by sending so many to Laraville, the High Elves had little to contribute other than large stock piles of dried fish and about two thousand healthy fighters that had remained.

A stand was made in Quenae that lasted for but a few weeks. Eventually their forces were pushed back by the Horde, ever south until they arrived in Avendae. Though supplies were brought into the Pixie village, it became apparent that food would be in short order for a long time and rations were implemented. The Pixies welcomed all with warmth that seemed to lift spirits thought never to rise again. They tended the wounded, entertained the children, and brought small smiles to faces of adults that had seen far too much.

The untapped magic of the Fae Forest was a boon to the surviving Sprites and the magically inclined, for a moment it was thought possible that they could win, but that thought was soon extinguished and concentration was reserved to just simply sustain their existence. The Sprites were able to lend their magic, and in shifts, the thirty some odd living worked to hold a strong magical barrier around Avendae and some of its surrounding land. Day and night, ten sprites known as the Barrier Keepers could be seen standing, staring into nothing with a shimmering magical shield that encased Avendae, and was the sole reason that any survived.

As the long years passed, it seemed as though the lands no longer existed, all that remained alive and true were settled among Avendae, living and dying, bearing children and losing families. It was a life of war and a life of hopelessness. More and more women and mothers began to fight along side their men and it was not uncommon to see a child on the battlefield helping to drag home the fallen or fighting the enemy. For ten years this hardship was endured, the people standing their ground, protecting their loved ones, fighting the hordes that seemed to simply re-spawn their limitless numbers daily. People no longer hoped for an end, or a better day. They only hoped that maybe today would not be the day their lives, or what had become of them, would end. They farmed small plots of land to keep meager food supplies, and fish were raised in small ponds, dried, and rationed. It was not living. It was barely surviving. But somehow, they kept going.

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Up to this point, the Pixies had been the polite hosts, the caring healers and the only spark of glee that any knew. But they grew restless of this life, and even their unquenchable spirit began to falter. The Pixie King at the time then brought forth a question no one had time to contemplate let alone answer, Why were they being attacked? What did the Chaos Legions want? It was decided among the Pixies that a group of ten, led by the King himself, would go to the Legion camp in an attempt to learn and then solve the purpose of the war. The other races were too perplexed to even attempt to halt them, and a strange sort of illusion set upon their minds convincing themselves that this might work! They might end this all, just give them what they want and they will leave. The ten Pixies wandered past the gates of Avendae, through the gate prepared in the barrier, across the charred and broken grounds and into the front line of the Legion. The enemy watched them. Did nothing but watch. As they stood, almost within speaking distance of the Horde, a volley of arrows was released and the Pixies crumpled and died instantaneously. The laughter and uproar of the Legion’s ranks could be heard even in the center of Avendae.

Absolute and utter shock ignited the fury of Queen Avendae as she watched the events in disbelief atop one of the makeshift guard towers erected around the parameter of the small village. From her small body was released a deafening cry of pure grief for her husband and for the very first time, hatred swelled within her. The sound broke the hearts of those around her, causing even the hardest warrior to look away with misting eyes. Standing on the ramparts, she conjured massive fireballs and obliterated the entire first division of the Legion’s army single handedly. The other Pixies, just as shocked and angered, followed their Queen’s offensive action and within moments, dozens of lightning streaks and fiery balls were let loose devastating everything within range. Queen Avendae never relented, she summoned and used every ounce of magical strength within her until finally as the day had passed and a new dawn approached, she collapsed where she stood. She was taken to her bedchamber where she never spoke and never moved. Eventually, after seven days, her grief and exhaustion claimed her life in her sleep.

Astonishment moved through the ranks of those at Avendae, they had never before seen or even considered a Pixie to be a force to contend with. But now with this newfound ally, their attacks against the Legions became even more forceful. Slight advancements were made, but never substantial enough to push the Hordes back. But now they were doing real damage to them. Magic poured from the sky day and night and warriors went forth to meet those that managed to make it near the magical barriers. Hope was rekindled in Avendae. Hope that perhaps they could push out and eventually run this evil back to where it came from. But as time went on, it became clear, nothing would change but the death toll.

Months passed and then, there came a lull that would last for one day and it was thought that maybe, the war was over. Just, maybe. Yet, just as the thought became a whispered rumor, the Legions attacked again. At dawn, just at the shift change of Barrier Keepers, the barrier was wrenched down and twenty Sprites fell dead instantly. The Horde stormed Avendae head on before any could even fathom what had just occurred, climbing over the bodies of the fallen to reach the gates. Alarms were set tolling and the survivors of the village arose to meet their fate. The attack was more intense than anything previously seen, the magic more powerful, the Legion’s warriors more ferocious and the archers seemed to suddenly have perfect aim. The gates were breached, the walls were swarmed, and those of Lazaron died quickly and easily. Any and all hope was lost; the war would end and the Chaos Legions would have free reign of their lands. Women gazed at their children’s faces for one last time, husbands held their families before taking up their weapons and preparing to give their people as many moments as possible before eternal darkness befell them all.

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Weakened, defeated, crushed of spirit, a High Elf who’s name is unknown to this day, gazed at those around him, the pain, the horror of knowing they survived this long only to perish with so little chance. With little left in him to fight, and little desire to live at all, he threw his weapon to the ground and knelt, raising his arms in prayer to Xaltion, calling out to Him to save them. Prayer had become an almost forgotten language as the Aspects had long ago seemed to have abandoned their worshipers. Regardless, those nearest to this High Elf immediately did the same, calling out to Xaltion in reverent prayer. One by one, each soul left standing knelt in the face of their enemy, putting all of their faith into Xaltion. And Xaltion heard their cries.

From the rivers was heard a thunderous roar, the waters of Forest Heart River and Sparkling River began to rise and curl into the air, rushing around Avendae like a liquid tornado ripping away building and body alike, surrounding the entire town of Avendae and its survivors. First terror and then realization spread among the races as the howling force of the wind whipped at the kneeling mass. Xaltion had answered them. Xaltion was saving them. The waters of Xaltion had embraced his much loved creations. After a time the wall of water receded and what lay before them, was nothing. The Chaos Legion was gone and the Legion camps were flooded and wrecked. For a mile from Avendae outward, nothing even resembling a member of the Horde was found. The war, of twelve years was finally over.

The times of celebration were short lived in Avendae. Xaltion was alive and well in the minds of all those who had fought but now that the war had ended, the other Aspects once again came begging of worship, offering favors of help. The races left the confines of the Pixie’s village, many children for the first time, heading for the ruins of their own towns and seeking out survivors along the way. The destruction Lazaron had sustained over the past decade or so was unbelievable. The land itself was hardly recognizable; villages and towns were seen only as large expanses of ash and rubble. Large areas of forest were burned or chopped down. Wild life was nearly extinct and rivers were contaminated with rotting bodies.

Patrols were sent all over the land to route bands of the Legion that still remained. Many could not understand what had happened, but by the trail of dead bodies left across the land on toward the Rift, the people were lead to conclude that the Legions were somehow driven back by Xaltion and forced into the Rift from where they came. As time passed, the reports of encounters from the patrols became less and less. It seemed as though the major threat had passed, though every so often it would be heard that an encampment or small settlement had been raided.

The High Elves, upon returning to Quenae came upon a band of about twenty Orcs, Ogres, and Goblins. They quickly subdued and captured them, and held them at Quenae. They gained much knowledge about the Rift; the significance celestial signs played against it, as well as much about the land of Karatta. They eventually gleaned from them what their group had been sent to Quenae to accomplish, and after months of magical interrogation, the High Elves felt it was time to call a meeting. Representatives from all the races would attend this meeting and the course of their lives would once again change with the knowledge the High Elves would bring them. In the year 689 AX, two years after the end of the Chaos War as it would come to be known as, a gathering of the races would occur, an event not seen since the Age of Mercy. This gathering would bring forth a new age, an age of realization, of knowledge, and prosperity.