The Emerald Tale

"The streets of this Esserian city were buried under nearly ten feet of snow as the Accursed Lord Sebora bore down on—"

“Iz, what’s snow?” Sharzin interrupted the tale almost immediately.

“Snow?” I responded, more shocked by the question than the interruption. “Oh, right, I forgot cold winters and snow don't exist in this era because of the divine curse. It-uhhh-is frozen water, like ice, but soft.”

“Why is it—”

“Let’s save the questions for after the story,” I cut the curious rogue off before clearing my throat to continue. "Where was I?"

Thinking of how I was going to compress half a dozen books into a single tale, I took another sip of liquor to bide my time. Then, remembering the important parts, I smirked and continued.

“Right. You see, the Winter Solstice was a time of cruel remembrance of an age immemorial. A time when God Children who would become known as Caering ravaged this world, defeating the first Divine Maker, sundering His creation, and scattering its pieces across the cosmos. Every year, on this exact night, Lord Sebora, one of those Divine Children, rode atop his chariot, high above the world, dragging behind him a mighty blizzard to remind the realm of his cruelty. To remind the mortals of the power that he and the other Gods and Devils possessed. 

And with it, he brought elementals whose sole purpose was to punish the survivors of this war. Distant offspring of those who were the rightful heirs to the world. Those who stayed loyal to the Divine Maker until the bitter end. The Mortal Children of Raldan. The very ones who now hid in their mortal bastions, scheming for power of their own. But on this particular night, of the very year I spoke, a band of mortals, numbering seven in total, decided to embark on a quest that would one day see them standing tall against corruption. Against the Caering. 

A quest that would see them one day be called: The Emerald Pantheon.”

Reaching this point, I felt a chill race down my spine. Across from me, my companions' faces slackened with awe at the tale I had begun to weave. For myself, this story was merely an epic, but for them, it was a forgotten past. One hidden from the mortal realm by a divine spell. Historical facts lost to time, never to exist in a textbook or tome. For the tale I began to tell was the one of the Great Mortal War. The very war that birthed a new pantheon.

"At first there were six: Poetry, the halfelf girl in search of purpose; Ruut, a lizardboy who dreamt to unite the Twelve Dragon Households; Anavryn, a noble heir of angelic lineage in search of a forgotten artifact; Khaine, a man seeking to avenge his lost brother; Rosalia, a gnomish princess looking to save her kingdom; and Serenity, a pink devilkin originally destined to betray them all.

But on this night, they would meet a seventh. One who could not fly her mighty airship in the storm. The Captain of the Zephyr, a dark elf named Fatemah. And as they drank at the bar, the six would agree to join the seventh in her mission to deliver a prisoner to the jails of Territon. And on this quest, they would learn of the disaster about to befall the nation of Esseria. At this, our heroes would split, the six and the one, with Fatemah taking her airship across the Sea of Regret to Mal'dakovik to investigate the rumours of a mighty invasion force. Meanwhile, moving east, the others would drive their pink Landstrider deep into the Moonlight Forest to entreat the Midnight Elves for guidance and—"

"What's a Landstrider?" Aesandoral interrupted with her hand raised.

"Yeah," Rionriv joined in. "And why was it pink? Is it because most of the party was girls? This seems very—”

"Reasons," I answered sharply. "Now shush, I'm getting to the good part."

"But by the time they had gotten their answers, it had become too late. No more than a month's time later, the Three Day Siege occurred. A time of death and destruction that the world had not seen in a dozen thousand years. On that night, a fleet of a hundred thousand arcane galleons lit the skies as they rained fire down atop the Seven Western Cities on behalf of the Evil Lord Racusa, Chancellor Supreme of Mal’dakovic. They razed the lumber city of Nefrique to the ground, with its half a million souls trapped beneath the very woods they had spent a hundred generations tending. They turned the textile fields of Wilsheri to ash, and blocked their escapes with mechanized soldiers built for war, surrounding the city and slaughtering its people like sheep.

Esskar, known for its agriculture and Rykulu, for its masonry, were turned to rubble, their lands salted, and the ash of the people scattered like memories on the wind. The city of Everlon, the mining people of Esseria, dug deep and managed to flee, but only after heavy losses. The same could be said for Silvae, the arcane capital of the world, for not even their magic could hold off both the mechanized forces and arcane galleons that surrounded them

For three days and nights, hell rained from the sky, and soulless armours marched from the north. But one city did not fall. The military might of Territon would stand guard as survivors of the six fallen cities flooded the mighty beacon that refused to yield. And then, at the first sight of dawn on the fourth day, they arrived. The six souls from the east and the single airship from the west. And thus began the legend of the saviours."

Pulling myself back from the story again, I once more noticed the chill that raced down my spine. I could feel eyes on me, as though the very world itself held its breath and watched. Across from my seat, I could see how enthralled the trio were by the story. By my story. By their history. And with this I couldn’t help but continue.

"The heroes of this tale would lead the counteroffensive against the Mal'dakovic invaders, but not before they gathered something. Not before they fought the forces of evil and pushed through the soulless enemy line. To find something that one of them had been searching for. A weapon. One powerful enough to slay a God. For this battle was not merely one of mortals, but a game most Divine. A game played time and again for countless millennia, costing millions of lives. A game of Gods and Devils. Of the Caering. And their nefarious plan to undermine the armistice and lay claim to the world.

For Lord Racusa and his hellish senators who sat atop the Cataclysm's Pyre were being played. They were nothing more than pawns of an orange-stained Devil who had long hungered for control. And the heroes, as good as they were, they too were being played, but by the Gods, who too sought to control the world and make it theirs.

But to make this mighty weapon theirs, they would sacrifice it all. Lay down tens of thousands of mortal souls to retake the Holiest of the Seven Cities. Esskar, the city of agriculture, had buried the tool deep within it. An object only accessible to the heir of the family destined to protect it. By Anavryn. 

Agricultural fields, once brimming with life, were soaked in blood, cursed for eternity by the souls lost. And the Forty-Fifth Regiment, those damned souls who would pay the ultimate price, forfeited their very destinies to guarantee the success of our heroes. Of the future Gods. Of the Emerald Pantheon and its march towards defeating Divinity."

By this point in the tale, Sharzin had left the couch with the others and approached. She rested at my feet, her head on the cushion beside me, staring my way in awe. Her gaze was fixed on mine. Eyes wide, she stared deeply into my gaze, only shifting to watch my lips as they continued to speak.

"With great sacrifice of flesh and metal, Territon, the last bastion of the Western Cities still standing, prepared their counteroffensive against Mal’dakovic leadership. They were to do the impossible and breach the enemy line. They were to take the distant volcano. The very one that had once been the home of the Divine Maker. That had been the birthright of the Children of Raldan. That had been destroyed to protect the world all those years ago by the first Kalish. 

So they commandeered a magically sophisticated pleasure craft that had been an Eldathian noble’s personal airship and turned it into the Emerald Limerick. A ship that would be a war cry for some, a siren's call for others, and ultimately known as the God Killer. Known as the Emerald Star! And with the best and brightest minds that remained, they built it to fight. Built it to survive. And sent it, with a skeleton crew of champions and heroes, to do the impossible. To make history. To guarantee a future world for all."

With a breath, I took a sip of my drink and relit my cigarette. Taking a drag, I listened as Aesandoral shifted. She crossed the space and joined Sharzin at my feet. There, she looked up at me, her eyes glittering in the light as she eagerly awaited more.

"And then?" The elf asked, touching my knee as her wide-eyed stare met my gaze. "Did they do it? Did they take Mal'dakovik?"

"They would, but not before a betrayal. Not before a sellsword who had snuck aboard the ship sold them out for a seat at the table of Devils. Not before he opened the doors and welcomed aboard the Champions of the Caering. Vicious and powerful angels who would bring the assault to the Emerald Limerick, downing the vessel before it could fulfill its destiny. And as the ship, with holes blown into it, set ablaze and no longer able to hold itself aloft, began losing altitude by the second, the six heroes dove without support into Cataclysm’s Pyre. Into that volcano that was once the First City of Illuhsan’Drayden, the home of Gods and Mortals, and now the Seat of the Seven Senators and the Chancellor Supreme. 

It was there that the heroes held their ground against a constant onslaught of devils and demons. Here, at the end, they would be given no time to mourn the loss of Fatemah, the Emerald Limerick, or all the souls that had departed on this mission with them. All that remained for the six was an epic final clash where they discovered the truth behind the war. The true reason for all the death. All the pain. The twisted dream that the Chancellor had committed himself to. His nefarious plan of rising to the level of Divinity and razing the world once more. 

And as the heroes fought, nearly falling again and again, they eventually took control of the power. They halted the transfer of the volcano's magical energy to him and, in turn, slayed the Chancellor. But without a source to consume the pooled magic, Cataclysm’s Pyre would soon erupt. And this time with enough energy to destroy the entire world."

I sipped my drink again and enjoyed a drag off the joint. Rionriv, who had not yet joined the others at my feet, now leaned forward from her couch. She reached for the bottle I had brought closer and poured herself another glass. And as she sat forward, watching me, I could see her tail flicking with curiosity.

"Left with no alternative, the six heroes consumed the power. Drawing it in and binding it to their souls, they each received a fragment of what would have been the new Deity’s strength. But this angered the Gods and the Devils of old. For they had hoped the heroes would have failed. For they hoped a new, fully formed God would have emerged, giving them a just reason to break the treaty and return to the world. To once more join the mortals on the ground they so desired. To have the freedom to apply their twisted form of justice without Divine restraint. 

It was at that moment, when the power flowed into the six, that a portal to the Divine realm began to open atop the pyre for the whole world to see. When the first God in almost thirty millennia touched its terrifying step once more to the forsaken earth. Its form impossibly tall. Its power, immense. Yet still, this was only a fraction of what its true strength would have been had the heroes not intervened.

But this mighty God did not scare away the heroes. No. Instead, they charged forward, merely ants with a fragment of the Divine. And with this alone, tired and beaten, they fought, keeping the being of immortal stature occupied long enough for something to happen. And just when all hope seemed lost, from over the horizon the Emerald Limerick sang its song and fired its charged cannon. A device crafted from the piece retrieved from Esskar. A weapon built to kill a Divinity. And with a beam of light brighter than a hundred suns, it pierced the God in an instant, shattering it. 

And so the story goes that the heroes, having narrowly escaped the attack, found themselves stronger as a result. As in that moment, the remains of this Fallen God rushed to their charged souls like a moth to a flame. And before their tired bodies could hit the ground, they were gone. Their essence ascended as mortal flesh became Divinity."

At this, I paused, looking between the trio before taking a final sip of my drink and allowing the chill of the tale to take its time to pass from my body.

“So, anyways,” I ended, taking another drag from the spliff before leaning forward between Sharzin and Aesandoral to put it out. “That’s the story of the old gods and their fuggery. And how a group of heroes said, ‘no more!’ and became gods themselves. Thanks for attending my Tahv Talk.”

“That was…” Rionriv thought for a second. “So convoluted. Okay, so wait, go back. Racusa was a man but actually an orange Devil that wanted to rule the world. So he got the Old Gods to help him because they wanted to destroy the world too? Why didn’t they just do that themselves?”

“Well, you see, a few Gods were technically on the side of the mortals, making the peace pact still binding, thus protecting the mortal realms. So if they came back, they'd be breaking that pact and, thus, risk destroying themselves if they set foot in this world. But, you see, if a new God arose, they would not technically be part of the original pact and, thus, able to do as they saw fit. This would have forced the hand of the Divine, and they would have seen fit to intervene. And thus giving probable cause to void the pact.”

At this, Rionriv shook her head with confusion, choosing to drink from her cup before continuing. In that time, Aesandoral raised her hand as though she was in class. The sight made me smile as I quickly pointed to her. 

“Yes, Miss Thantossa?”

“Umm," The elf hummed. "You mentioned that an Eldathian owned the Emerald Limerick?” 

“Yeah, and, fun fact, Poetry, the half-elf of the Six Heroes, was also from the City of Eldath. This port city was known as the Emerald Gem of Mal’dakovic.”

“Okay. So, my middle name is Eldath,” Aesandoral revealed as I sipped from my drink. “And so was my mom’s, and so on for generations, or so she says. Is that like, related?”

Spitting the liquor out, my heart raced as I leaned towards the girl. With a hand placed on her shoulder, I moved my drunken face close to Aesandoral's. There was no lust in this moment, only an uncontrollable curiosity on my end.

“You’re a part of the Eldathian family line?!” I yelled out, shocked and amazed. “Th-that, oh my Gods, what is up with all of you? That family line was supposed to be extinct. They were the last of the pure-blooded Children of Raldan. Killed off in the war. Unless—oh fug, did Poetry's brother live in this reality?”

"Who?" Aesandoral asked before I felt a finger poke my ribs from below. 

Flinching back, I laughed hysterically, and at this, Sharzin looked at me with a devious look.

“Oh-ho-ho, ticklish there, huh?” She remarked. “I shall remember this.”

Taking a sip of her drink, the rogue exhaled and continued.

"Anyways, you said Cataclysm’s Pyre. Like the big volcano we can see from campus?”

“Precisely the one,” I exclaimed excitedly. “Fun fact, it sank a lot in the last calamity. The water around it is actually filling the caldera, and the volcano we see now is the resurgent dome. So, technically, the school is in the caldera of this volcano. But don’t worry, in a few years the first city will return from its eons of isolation and stabilize the mountain once and for all, just in time to help us fight the Caering one final time.”

“Wait, I thought you said the peace pact protected us?” Rionriv asked, her tail flicking with a worry not present in her words.

“Well, the last cataclysm didn’t happen for no reason, but that's a whole other story. The long and short of it is that the terms for peace are tentative at best now. But there is nothing we can do about that but wait.”

“But shouldn’t we do something?”

“We are!" I answered with a laugh and sloshed my drink as I spun it around. "We’re making a safe place for the refugees to flee to. That’s the best I can do. Any more and I jeopardize the delicate balance. Like Petal said in her message, just me being her has changed things. I just have to hope the world autocorrects. And hopefully better than it already has been...”

With that, we sat in silence for a while before a few more questions emerged for me to answer. But slowly the conversation changed to happier topics and the mood cheered up once more as we returned to singing and dancing and drinking until late in the evening.