In previous posts, I stated that death is not final in The Fortress Eternal. The more complete truth of this is that death cannot be final within the walls of The City. The City lasts forever, and the Preservation that maintains The City also maintains everything within it - broken blades return repaired to armouries, empty branches soon bend under the weight of ripe fruit, and the dead live.
The City's magic preserves life as it preserves stone and steel, though the process is not without its cost to the newly-immortal visitors to The City. The simple way of looking at it is as follows: When a person dies within The City, be it through accident, carelessness, disease, or foul play, The Preservation will return them to life. Those brought back to life are more tightly bound to the fabric of The City, more in tune with the Preservation. They often find they are able to hear whispers from anywhere within a District of The City, or direct their wounds to the stone around them, or walk to any street they can picture simply by turning down a previously unnoticed alley.
In exchange for this power, The City preserves the returned visitor. Each time a character dies and returns, they gain a new power courtesy of The City. They also find it more difficult to increase their skills and abilities through the use of experience - each resurrection raises the XP costs of everything. The more times a character dies, the more they are made a static thing, struggling to advance or grow as a person while The City's unchanging character infects them.
As a second caveat to these powers, The Preservation only works within The City. Outside of The City, every wound a character has ever taken returns - the length of time this takes is determined by how frequently they have died. The screaming apparition in "The Silver Demon" is an example of a character who has frequently died, and then has left The City only to have his many fatal wounds immediately - and spectacularly - return.
At the moment, I'm unsure whether to refer to these unfortunates as Stonebound or The Preserved.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
The City Is Forever
The Fortress Eternal takes place in The City. To explain The City, and the concept, I have to enter into a digression on the subject of magic as it applies to The Fortress Eternal.
Magic is capable of three things, though these categories are quite broad: Magic can create, magic can preserve, and magic can destroy. At some point, the idea that The City would fade and be forgotten so terrified someone that the greatest Preservation ever wrought was placed upon it. The City would always be preserved. The City would last forever - eternally present throughout time.
This could not be, and thus was the kharmic cycle, the thread of reality, the will of Fate - call it what you will - torn asunder. The World thus moves in an uneven and unknown cycle of Epochs, and The City is present throughout it all - hidden just beneath the fabric of The World like a splinter buried beneath the skin. In The World, time moves on - people are born and die, wars are won and lost, nations rise and fall, the tide ebbs and flows, and The World turns.
Within The City, things are somewhat different. Those who enter The City cannot die - even if they fall to the blade or poison, The City's enchantments return breath to their bodies.
Over the long years, people have come to The City - how exactly varies from person to person. Sometimes it is the result of a lifetime's pursuit of half-forgotten legends, sometimes they have merely sought shelter from a storm in a building that looked out of place and, upon emerging, saw alien structures towering above them against an unfamiliar sky.
Those who come to The City can be grouped into four known Epochs: Those from The Time Before, those from The Golden Age, those from The Killing Years, and those from The Long Twilight. Scholars attempting to write histories of The World as they knew it are confounded by the tales of other visitors to The City - even visitors from an Epoch that sounds much like The World they knew often hail from unfamiliar countries or profess ignorance of the legends and places the scholars share with them. No work has yet been able to conclusively fit together the four Epochs into one linear history.
So The City lasts forever and has been made eternal - this in itself is a corruption of nature, and so The City, though a place of wonder, should not be. Its towers are high, its streets long, and caverns and tunnels run deep beneath it. It is everywhere and nowhere, and time has bent beneath the strain The City has placed on it. It is sparsely populated with visitors who have had no hand in building it and who cannot die - though every time they return to life, they are bound that much closer to The City. In all its castles, palaces, temples, inns, and dwellings there is no sign to be seen of anyone who claims to be a native of The City, and inhuman creatures - as lost in an unfamiliar world as the visitors - are rumoured to wander the dark and unknown districts of The City.
The City is a place that defies reason, and in it the most valuable commodity one can possess is trust.
So where do the players fit in this? The players represent a group of visitors - perhaps from one Epoch, perhaps from different Epochs - who are part explorer in and part prisoner of The City. They each define what they seek from the The City - truth, escape, seeking someone lost - and their trust alone keeps them together.
Magic is capable of three things, though these categories are quite broad: Magic can create, magic can preserve, and magic can destroy. At some point, the idea that The City would fade and be forgotten so terrified someone that the greatest Preservation ever wrought was placed upon it. The City would always be preserved. The City would last forever - eternally present throughout time.
This could not be, and thus was the kharmic cycle, the thread of reality, the will of Fate - call it what you will - torn asunder. The World thus moves in an uneven and unknown cycle of Epochs, and The City is present throughout it all - hidden just beneath the fabric of The World like a splinter buried beneath the skin. In The World, time moves on - people are born and die, wars are won and lost, nations rise and fall, the tide ebbs and flows, and The World turns.
Within The City, things are somewhat different. Those who enter The City cannot die - even if they fall to the blade or poison, The City's enchantments return breath to their bodies.
Over the long years, people have come to The City - how exactly varies from person to person. Sometimes it is the result of a lifetime's pursuit of half-forgotten legends, sometimes they have merely sought shelter from a storm in a building that looked out of place and, upon emerging, saw alien structures towering above them against an unfamiliar sky.
Those who come to The City can be grouped into four known Epochs: Those from The Time Before, those from The Golden Age, those from The Killing Years, and those from The Long Twilight. Scholars attempting to write histories of The World as they knew it are confounded by the tales of other visitors to The City - even visitors from an Epoch that sounds much like The World they knew often hail from unfamiliar countries or profess ignorance of the legends and places the scholars share with them. No work has yet been able to conclusively fit together the four Epochs into one linear history.
So The City lasts forever and has been made eternal - this in itself is a corruption of nature, and so The City, though a place of wonder, should not be. Its towers are high, its streets long, and caverns and tunnels run deep beneath it. It is everywhere and nowhere, and time has bent beneath the strain The City has placed on it. It is sparsely populated with visitors who have had no hand in building it and who cannot die - though every time they return to life, they are bound that much closer to The City. In all its castles, palaces, temples, inns, and dwellings there is no sign to be seen of anyone who claims to be a native of The City, and inhuman creatures - as lost in an unfamiliar world as the visitors - are rumoured to wander the dark and unknown districts of The City.
The City is a place that defies reason, and in it the most valuable commodity one can possess is trust.
So where do the players fit in this? The players represent a group of visitors - perhaps from one Epoch, perhaps from different Epochs - who are part explorer in and part prisoner of The City. They each define what they seek from the The City - truth, escape, seeking someone lost - and their trust alone keeps them together.
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
The Fortress Eternal: Basic Concept
In all honesty, I probably ought to get the central idea - or at least the initial draft of it - down on paper. I work around it a lot; this is much the same as what I used to do in art class, when I'd do very detailed drawings of people, paying attention to everything except their faces. The odd faceless portraits I ended up doing creeped the art teachers out, and I never had time to add faces at the end of the class.
What I'm doing here - sporadically, I'll admit, but still technically doing - is similar. I've had a fair few ideas for roleplaying games over the years, but nothing ever really gets done with them. So, I thought I would get the actual core notion behind The Fortress Eternal written down so I can see it, modify it, and get some ideas behind what it actually means. So, here it is:
The players are explorers lost, or trapped, within a city that spans eternity and where death has no meaning. They seek to unravel its mysteries and perhaps escape - though to when, they cannot be sure.
So there it is: The Fortress Eternal. The City is Forever.
What I'm doing here - sporadically, I'll admit, but still technically doing - is similar. I've had a fair few ideas for roleplaying games over the years, but nothing ever really gets done with them. So, I thought I would get the actual core notion behind The Fortress Eternal written down so I can see it, modify it, and get some ideas behind what it actually means. So, here it is:
The players are explorers lost, or trapped, within a city that spans eternity and where death has no meaning. They seek to unravel its mysteries and perhaps escape - though to when, they cannot be sure.
So there it is: The Fortress Eternal. The City is Forever.
Monday, 13 July 2009
Dharuta on the Bridge
A Tale of the Fortress Eternal
From the Golden Age
So Dharuta left the court of King Jharugatha and went from Rashur along the road to Maratha, bearing with her only her staff and bowl. She came then to the great bridge spanning the Grey Straits, its carved battlements telling the saga of the Asuras to the pilgrims who walked their road. As Dharuta trod the pilgrim's path a crowd gathered, beseeching her to speak.
In those days, the governor of that land lived in a high fort built around the central span of the bridge. This man's name was Karakatha and, seeing the crowd from his tower, he asked his soldiers why they gathered. "They hope to hear Dharuta's teaching", they said. "She comes to Maratha by our road." At once the governor ordered his horse made ready and rode out to meet the sage.
Now Karakatha was not a foolish man, and his fathers had kept that bridge all their days, but in his dreams he was tormented and sorrow would overtake him as he stood atop his home gazing down at the great river far below him. So it was that he sought Dharuta on the Asura's Road, the hooves of his horse grinding the smooth-worn stones that had known the tread of a thousand holy men.
He came upon the sage when the sun stood at its height, surrounded by a vast crowd. Desparate to speak with her, Karakatha drew his sword and moved with force to Dharuta. Her followers gathered close but she bade them sit to the side, saying that she would turn away none who wished to hear her.
Humbled, Karakatha sheathed his sword and dismounted. Before the teacher he stood clad in shining mail and silk, and there he knelt and begged her to answer his question. Dharuta consented, and when Karakatha spoke his voice was dry. "Through all the days of my fathers", he said, "the Empire has stood strong and peace has reigned. The cities are places of wonder, our marvels have tamed all the world, and the wisdom and compassion of our leaders is unmatched. Is this order, then, not the will of the gods? Must not this perfect world endure?"
This is the story Dharuta told.
Once there was a city unlike any other. This city was as a perfect jewel and the delight of her King who, like any doting father, lavished all his riches upon her. Scholars came from distant kingdoms to dwell near the libraries which held the wisdom of the ages. Soldiers, tired of war and all its hollow glory, came to sit by the whispering fountains. Even kings rode to that city to behold the magnificence of the jewelled gates and the glory of the golden towers. Every tower, every street, and every dwelling, from the grandest temple to the merest stable, was a work of art worthy of a place of honour in any Rajah's capital. All through the years of men would the city be renowned, and yet her king was sad.
"Look", he said one day as he walked, "and see how the golden dome of the Tower of the Morning Sun no longer shines so brightly as it once did."
"No matter, Majesty", counselled his viziers and his seers, "our coffers are full. It can easily be replaced. The gleaming spire will once more be a true reflection of your glory."
So it was repaired, yet still the king was sad.
His generals could not console him. "The glory you have won shall ever be remembered", they said. "Your triumphs have gained you eternal renown."
But the king cared not for triumph in battle, nor for the renown he had won through bloodshed, and so his generals took their leave.
His scholars could not console him. "Your Majesty's greatness has brought all the wisdom of men to his great city", they said. "The thoughts and dreams of this generation will shake the world, and shape it evermore." But the king cared not for their laboured wisdom, nor for shaping the minds of those who would come after him, and so his scholars took their leave.
Even his wives could not console him. "My husband, no city has ever stood that can approach the beauty of our home", they said. "All who behold its wonder are enthralled, and weep with joy the first time they walk its streets." Yet the king feared that beauty would fade, and wonders would be forgotten, and so his wives took their leave.
So it was that one day a magician came before the king. "What then," said the king, "do you counsel me, sorcerer? What cold posterities do you offer me as blankets about my fear?" The magician shook his head. "I offer you no such comforts, O King," she spoke, "for it is known that they bring you no joy. I would not have come before you but that I could offer you that which you seek."
The king took the sorcerer then to a high tower and looked out upon his perfect city. "Can you cheat time, then? Can you see to it that the sands of age never wear away the empty stones that will lie tumbled here long after men have left this place?"
The magician stood there in the winds high above the city, and she thought. "Three forces govern the world, O King", she said, "and they stand all in balance. All is created, all things endure for a time, and all things must end. Even the merest of mages know this, and can craft a carpet that feet will not wear away, a shield that blades will not pierce or crack, or a blade that will bring ruin to all it cuts. Yet the balance is maintained, for every magic has its price."
The magician paused here, and the king grew impatient. None had before offered him hope before, yet here stood a mage who did not realise that gold held no allure for the king and for his city he would pay any price.
When the king told the magician such, she laughed. "The price, great one, is not mine but the spell's to decide, but it will and it must be paid." Thinking he understood the king volunteered his life for a price, pausing for not even a heartbeat's space. The magician only shook her head. "The price will be nothing so trivial", she said, and the king felt fear. Yet he agreed for the magic to be worked.
So it was that for one day the Magician walked in the darkness beneath the city among the great stones that shouldered the burden of that wondrous place. She walked for one day in the light, and laid her hands on the holy altars of the city's temples. All through those days she worked her spell and the people looked on her with curiosity. While they slept on the second day, the Magician completed her work and the spell fell across the face of that city like a mourner's veil.
The King had his wish, as he was promised; but the price was steep, as he was warned. As the long days of that perfect city unfolded, the king saw that no traveller came from afar to look in awe at its perfect streets. No person dwelling in that perfect city ever perished, for there the natural order of life was defied and there it was rejected. No murals were washed away by the Sun's light, but the great artists made nothing new. Sometimes, when looking out from his high tower, the king found the surrounding lands strange and unfamiliar. One day, after a span of years beyond the counting of men, the king found he could not even remember his city's name.
So it was that the Shining City passed from the minds of men and lived forever. None remembered her golden towers, and none praised her great libraries. None marvelled at her sanctuaries and temples, and no voice gave honour to her wise king.
Karakatha heard these words and, laying down his blade and mail, walked in Dharuta's footsteps all his days.
From the Golden Age
So Dharuta left the court of King Jharugatha and went from Rashur along the road to Maratha, bearing with her only her staff and bowl. She came then to the great bridge spanning the Grey Straits, its carved battlements telling the saga of the Asuras to the pilgrims who walked their road. As Dharuta trod the pilgrim's path a crowd gathered, beseeching her to speak.
In those days, the governor of that land lived in a high fort built around the central span of the bridge. This man's name was Karakatha and, seeing the crowd from his tower, he asked his soldiers why they gathered. "They hope to hear Dharuta's teaching", they said. "She comes to Maratha by our road." At once the governor ordered his horse made ready and rode out to meet the sage.
Now Karakatha was not a foolish man, and his fathers had kept that bridge all their days, but in his dreams he was tormented and sorrow would overtake him as he stood atop his home gazing down at the great river far below him. So it was that he sought Dharuta on the Asura's Road, the hooves of his horse grinding the smooth-worn stones that had known the tread of a thousand holy men.
He came upon the sage when the sun stood at its height, surrounded by a vast crowd. Desparate to speak with her, Karakatha drew his sword and moved with force to Dharuta. Her followers gathered close but she bade them sit to the side, saying that she would turn away none who wished to hear her.
Humbled, Karakatha sheathed his sword and dismounted. Before the teacher he stood clad in shining mail and silk, and there he knelt and begged her to answer his question. Dharuta consented, and when Karakatha spoke his voice was dry. "Through all the days of my fathers", he said, "the Empire has stood strong and peace has reigned. The cities are places of wonder, our marvels have tamed all the world, and the wisdom and compassion of our leaders is unmatched. Is this order, then, not the will of the gods? Must not this perfect world endure?"
This is the story Dharuta told.
Once there was a city unlike any other. This city was as a perfect jewel and the delight of her King who, like any doting father, lavished all his riches upon her. Scholars came from distant kingdoms to dwell near the libraries which held the wisdom of the ages. Soldiers, tired of war and all its hollow glory, came to sit by the whispering fountains. Even kings rode to that city to behold the magnificence of the jewelled gates and the glory of the golden towers. Every tower, every street, and every dwelling, from the grandest temple to the merest stable, was a work of art worthy of a place of honour in any Rajah's capital. All through the years of men would the city be renowned, and yet her king was sad.
"Look", he said one day as he walked, "and see how the golden dome of the Tower of the Morning Sun no longer shines so brightly as it once did."
"No matter, Majesty", counselled his viziers and his seers, "our coffers are full. It can easily be replaced. The gleaming spire will once more be a true reflection of your glory."
So it was repaired, yet still the king was sad.
His generals could not console him. "The glory you have won shall ever be remembered", they said. "Your triumphs have gained you eternal renown."
But the king cared not for triumph in battle, nor for the renown he had won through bloodshed, and so his generals took their leave.
His scholars could not console him. "Your Majesty's greatness has brought all the wisdom of men to his great city", they said. "The thoughts and dreams of this generation will shake the world, and shape it evermore." But the king cared not for their laboured wisdom, nor for shaping the minds of those who would come after him, and so his scholars took their leave.
Even his wives could not console him. "My husband, no city has ever stood that can approach the beauty of our home", they said. "All who behold its wonder are enthralled, and weep with joy the first time they walk its streets." Yet the king feared that beauty would fade, and wonders would be forgotten, and so his wives took their leave.
So it was that one day a magician came before the king. "What then," said the king, "do you counsel me, sorcerer? What cold posterities do you offer me as blankets about my fear?" The magician shook his head. "I offer you no such comforts, O King," she spoke, "for it is known that they bring you no joy. I would not have come before you but that I could offer you that which you seek."
The king took the sorcerer then to a high tower and looked out upon his perfect city. "Can you cheat time, then? Can you see to it that the sands of age never wear away the empty stones that will lie tumbled here long after men have left this place?"
The magician stood there in the winds high above the city, and she thought. "Three forces govern the world, O King", she said, "and they stand all in balance. All is created, all things endure for a time, and all things must end. Even the merest of mages know this, and can craft a carpet that feet will not wear away, a shield that blades will not pierce or crack, or a blade that will bring ruin to all it cuts. Yet the balance is maintained, for every magic has its price."
The magician paused here, and the king grew impatient. None had before offered him hope before, yet here stood a mage who did not realise that gold held no allure for the king and for his city he would pay any price.
When the king told the magician such, she laughed. "The price, great one, is not mine but the spell's to decide, but it will and it must be paid." Thinking he understood the king volunteered his life for a price, pausing for not even a heartbeat's space. The magician only shook her head. "The price will be nothing so trivial", she said, and the king felt fear. Yet he agreed for the magic to be worked.
So it was that for one day the Magician walked in the darkness beneath the city among the great stones that shouldered the burden of that wondrous place. She walked for one day in the light, and laid her hands on the holy altars of the city's temples. All through those days she worked her spell and the people looked on her with curiosity. While they slept on the second day, the Magician completed her work and the spell fell across the face of that city like a mourner's veil.
The King had his wish, as he was promised; but the price was steep, as he was warned. As the long days of that perfect city unfolded, the king saw that no traveller came from afar to look in awe at its perfect streets. No person dwelling in that perfect city ever perished, for there the natural order of life was defied and there it was rejected. No murals were washed away by the Sun's light, but the great artists made nothing new. Sometimes, when looking out from his high tower, the king found the surrounding lands strange and unfamiliar. One day, after a span of years beyond the counting of men, the king found he could not even remember his city's name.
So it was that the Shining City passed from the minds of men and lived forever. None remembered her golden towers, and none praised her great libraries. None marvelled at her sanctuaries and temples, and no voice gave honour to her wise king.
Karakatha heard these words and, laying down his blade and mail, walked in Dharuta's footsteps all his days.
Monday, 6 July 2009
The Silver Demon
The Silver Demon
A Tale of the Fortress Eternal
From The Time Before
Listen, for this is the tale of the lost Agniska, and of how they wandered far and forsook the Lands.
In the time of Taera the Bloodied Axe when Yogesh stood as Warlord over five of the tribes on the Great Plain, the chief among the Agniska peoples swore to his bride that their children would be ignorant of terror. Scorning the tribe's Star he walked far from the paths of his fathers, and his people walked with him.
It is said that they came upon a fertile valley and knew three good summers there, but Yogesh sought them out and they fled before him.
It is said they were happy in the hill country for a time, and that a stone of thanksgiving yet stands there that was raised by Agniska hands, but Yogesh sought them out and they fled before him.
In despair the chief turned his face to the East and the Agniska walked among the High Mountains - the Pillars of the Sky. Wild beasts gathered about them, and the people knew great hardship. Many were left at the path's edge, their spirits asleep, long awaiting their kin's return. There it was Yaegu made his name - among the Pillars of the Sky he walked before his people, and at night he stood over their tents and slew what wild beasts the darkness made bold. Here Yaegu slew the greatest of the mountain dragons, and fashioned a war club from its rib to split the skulls of its kin.
Not the chief it was but Yaegu guided the people, as the journey crushed the tribe's father. Yaegu it was whom they called Hero, and Yaegu it was who first crested the rise that brought the Agniska before the Palace of the Gods.
Hewn from rock before time the Palace stood, stone piled high upon stone. Towers touched the sky, and thick walls cast the Agniska into shadow. A mighty door of black wood stood wider than ten men before them.
For three days the Agniska stood before the great gate and it did not open. No axe could split the wood, and no fire could grip it. On the third day, a boy of the tribe saw a dark hole high upon the wall. Yaegu spoke up to claim the honour of entering the Palace, yet the Chief stood before the people and denied him. The next day the Chief it was who placed his hands upon the stones and climbed, his spear on his back and his face before him. The eyes of the tribe saw him crawl into the darkness and vanish.
All that day and the next they waited, sheltering against a terrible wind. Through the summer they waited, and yet the chief did not return - nor did Yogesh seek them out. As the mountains grew cold and winter gathered about them, the door opened and then it was that the Agniska beheld the Silver Demon, and knew they stood on ground sacred to the gods.
The Silver Demon had the face of a man, but a man like no other. Paler than death he stood, clad in silver and bearing a silver blade upon his hip. When he beheld the Agniska he cursed them, opening his mouth to loosen a terrible howl. The Demon's curse chilled the blood of the brave, and all saw the end of their tomorrow's in the creature's terrible eyes as he looked upon them, weeping blood.
The Demon turned to dust where he stood, yet his scream is said to have filled the valley for a day and a night.
When the Demon was gone, the Agniska found his silver armour and his silver blade. Gathering their wisest, the tribe set to use these totems to break the blood-curse the spirit had uttered when it walked among them, but Yaegu stepped forth and took into his hand the war-things of the Silver Demon. None dared deny him.
Yaegu slept under the sun in those days. Under the moon he walked about the camp, his sword a challenge to its silver master to retrieve it - if he dared. One morning as winter drew its knife, Yaegu declared the wanderings of the Agniska at an end. There he proclaimed himself Guardian of the Sacred and demanded a wall be built to protect the Palace of the Gods and the holy grounds. So in time sons would walk where their fathers had died, and the Agniska would put aside their spears as they put aside their yesterdays. Yaegu commanded this, and none dared deny him.
Among the mountains Yaegu walked and spilled the blood of those he met, man and beast alike. The Agniska knew twenty hard winters, but they lived, and their secret was guarded whilst their leader kept a great tent before the Palace of the Gods.
In time five sons were born to Yaegu, each a strong warrior in his own right, each the son of a great chief. So it happened that Maenu and Ar-Yaegu returned from the hunt and saw their father's armour shine in the distance. Going to greet him, they came upon him bathing in a stream, his armour and blade standing by a tree. It was then that the Silver Demon's curse stirred in their hearts and two sons saw not their father but only the glory of the silver sword, and the splendour of the silver breastplate. It is not known who moved first, but the sons of Yaegu cast their father beneath the waters and never let him rise. When Yaegu was in the Earth, his sons split his armour among themselves, and Maenu took the terrible silver blade for his own.
Yet the curse would not be still, and Maenu's blade won him no glory when Sartesh his brother stole into his tent and strangled him, claiming the sword as well as his father's helmet. Fear then gripped the Sons of Yaegu, and each among them vied for the strongest of their people to stand guard over their tents while they slept. These warriors agreed, holding in their hearts the story of the day Yaegu their lords' father usurped their vanished chief. And so did son turn against father, brother against brother, the Silver Demon's curse claimed the Agniska, and the wind claimed all that they left behind.
It is said that one hundred winters later the great doors of the Palace of the Gods opened and the Chief of the Agniska came forth from the shadowed eternal halls. He wept for his people that day as he stood amid their ruined homes and beheld their sun-scoured bones. For long days after he walked among men, but he had been touched by the gods, and all were fearful of him.
A Tale of the Fortress Eternal
From The Time Before
Listen, for this is the tale of the lost Agniska, and of how they wandered far and forsook the Lands.
In the time of Taera the Bloodied Axe when Yogesh stood as Warlord over five of the tribes on the Great Plain, the chief among the Agniska peoples swore to his bride that their children would be ignorant of terror. Scorning the tribe's Star he walked far from the paths of his fathers, and his people walked with him.
It is said that they came upon a fertile valley and knew three good summers there, but Yogesh sought them out and they fled before him.
It is said they were happy in the hill country for a time, and that a stone of thanksgiving yet stands there that was raised by Agniska hands, but Yogesh sought them out and they fled before him.
In despair the chief turned his face to the East and the Agniska walked among the High Mountains - the Pillars of the Sky. Wild beasts gathered about them, and the people knew great hardship. Many were left at the path's edge, their spirits asleep, long awaiting their kin's return. There it was Yaegu made his name - among the Pillars of the Sky he walked before his people, and at night he stood over their tents and slew what wild beasts the darkness made bold. Here Yaegu slew the greatest of the mountain dragons, and fashioned a war club from its rib to split the skulls of its kin.
Not the chief it was but Yaegu guided the people, as the journey crushed the tribe's father. Yaegu it was whom they called Hero, and Yaegu it was who first crested the rise that brought the Agniska before the Palace of the Gods.
Hewn from rock before time the Palace stood, stone piled high upon stone. Towers touched the sky, and thick walls cast the Agniska into shadow. A mighty door of black wood stood wider than ten men before them.
For three days the Agniska stood before the great gate and it did not open. No axe could split the wood, and no fire could grip it. On the third day, a boy of the tribe saw a dark hole high upon the wall. Yaegu spoke up to claim the honour of entering the Palace, yet the Chief stood before the people and denied him. The next day the Chief it was who placed his hands upon the stones and climbed, his spear on his back and his face before him. The eyes of the tribe saw him crawl into the darkness and vanish.
All that day and the next they waited, sheltering against a terrible wind. Through the summer they waited, and yet the chief did not return - nor did Yogesh seek them out. As the mountains grew cold and winter gathered about them, the door opened and then it was that the Agniska beheld the Silver Demon, and knew they stood on ground sacred to the gods.
The Silver Demon had the face of a man, but a man like no other. Paler than death he stood, clad in silver and bearing a silver blade upon his hip. When he beheld the Agniska he cursed them, opening his mouth to loosen a terrible howl. The Demon's curse chilled the blood of the brave, and all saw the end of their tomorrow's in the creature's terrible eyes as he looked upon them, weeping blood.
The Demon turned to dust where he stood, yet his scream is said to have filled the valley for a day and a night.
When the Demon was gone, the Agniska found his silver armour and his silver blade. Gathering their wisest, the tribe set to use these totems to break the blood-curse the spirit had uttered when it walked among them, but Yaegu stepped forth and took into his hand the war-things of the Silver Demon. None dared deny him.
Yaegu slept under the sun in those days. Under the moon he walked about the camp, his sword a challenge to its silver master to retrieve it - if he dared. One morning as winter drew its knife, Yaegu declared the wanderings of the Agniska at an end. There he proclaimed himself Guardian of the Sacred and demanded a wall be built to protect the Palace of the Gods and the holy grounds. So in time sons would walk where their fathers had died, and the Agniska would put aside their spears as they put aside their yesterdays. Yaegu commanded this, and none dared deny him.
Among the mountains Yaegu walked and spilled the blood of those he met, man and beast alike. The Agniska knew twenty hard winters, but they lived, and their secret was guarded whilst their leader kept a great tent before the Palace of the Gods.
In time five sons were born to Yaegu, each a strong warrior in his own right, each the son of a great chief. So it happened that Maenu and Ar-Yaegu returned from the hunt and saw their father's armour shine in the distance. Going to greet him, they came upon him bathing in a stream, his armour and blade standing by a tree. It was then that the Silver Demon's curse stirred in their hearts and two sons saw not their father but only the glory of the silver sword, and the splendour of the silver breastplate. It is not known who moved first, but the sons of Yaegu cast their father beneath the waters and never let him rise. When Yaegu was in the Earth, his sons split his armour among themselves, and Maenu took the terrible silver blade for his own.
Yet the curse would not be still, and Maenu's blade won him no glory when Sartesh his brother stole into his tent and strangled him, claiming the sword as well as his father's helmet. Fear then gripped the Sons of Yaegu, and each among them vied for the strongest of their people to stand guard over their tents while they slept. These warriors agreed, holding in their hearts the story of the day Yaegu their lords' father usurped their vanished chief. And so did son turn against father, brother against brother, the Silver Demon's curse claimed the Agniska, and the wind claimed all that they left behind.
It is said that one hundred winters later the great doors of the Palace of the Gods opened and the Chief of the Agniska came forth from the shadowed eternal halls. He wept for his people that day as he stood amid their ruined homes and beheld their sun-scoured bones. For long days after he walked among men, but he had been touched by the gods, and all were fearful of him.
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