Chronicles Vol-2

From the high western walls of Thirian was first seen the storm that would destroy us.  The beacons we lit to protect us also served as a sign for the rest that all was well, each being bright enough to be seen by the others.

A great dark cloud had found its way inland from the sea and marched up the great river towards our borders. Wind and rain lashed our cities, but no one paid it any head as it battered against our walls.
Lightning would now and again rip the skies into chasms of light, and then leave it in ever more oppressive darkness.

Then, above the storm, the horns sounded. It had been 100 years since those horns had been heard, and their sound seemed to stun all who heard them. The world slowed and it seemed as though time forgot to follow its clock. Legs moved slower, even as men ran to see... The westernmost beacon had fallen.
Braving the storm, soldiers and the men of Oen ran to the walls, the tempest beginning to scream as it whipped through the battlements as if voicing the fear that had begun to spread through the city.
Lord Thurin, reaching the walls, immediately turned, yelling for a rider to be sent. Before the words had left, the second beacon fell, and the third. Above the sound of the ever-heightening storm, the first deafening peal reached us. The beacons had been forged by men who told of places of fire and rivers that burned. They had brought these from the depths of this abyss and had set them to guard us. Ancient and of unknown sorcery, their death tolls washed over us. fixing us in place...
It was then I, Keeper of the ancient beacon of Thirian, reached out and touched Lord Thurin' shoulder, breaking the spell that transfixed the city.
The time had come, we would rally our defenses, and send out to see what had brought down the beacons.
The armories were emptied and all our men armed. 3 legions set out from or gates, each accompanied by a cloak of mages. A cloak numbering 9 men. In the agonizing hours as we waited for word we prepared, the eye of the storm marching ever closer. Riders had been dispatched to the remaining 3 cities in the plain, and the women and children and men of those towns not essential to their defense were brought into our most ancient places of strength. Glaroz closed its gates of stone, the Mages creed of Telthose gathered its members, and Thirian rallied its guards and readied its walls.

Then the 4th toll and the light of the 4th beacon of Oen fell. What we know of the fall of the plains was brought by terrified men, crazed and weeping, their minds shattered. The steward of Telfon making it as far as our front gate would tell us of the threat that moved towards us, covered from the sun by the storm that seemed to turn a sickly green as it moved closer.

The first attacks came from within the walls we had thought would keep us safe. As the eye moved over each city, the winds would calm, and all was left in silence. Then the lighting struck fast and in all directions, where it struck dark priestesses rose in green fire, and if it struck our farms and fields, the beasts were transformed into deformed creatures wielding arcane swords, their eyes glowing with an ancient fire. The first three had no warning. The next would not fall so easily, but fall they would. Set into battle line on the walls, our archers turned to fire into the city they thought would protect them, and those who waited with sword and ax in the courtyards formed tight circles with which to defend them. Battle now, and the horns and cries of men and monster broke the silence.
Magic and steel met flesh and armor, and both sides fell in great number. Slowly it seemed ours would take the field, and then unearthly thunder sounded from the gates. Our archers who had until then fired into the city its self, felling the greater number of the enemy, turned to find creatures now crawling from the earth. some regaining flesh as they rose, others with no flesh at all, but the thunder came from creatures that had never yet been seen. They had no arms, but had four legs and ran like dogs towards the walls, their faces empty and black, they would burst against the gates with loud explosions. The city was surrounded. Now divided within and without, our forces began to fall back to where ever would afford them sanctuary. The archers, safe up to this time, now started to take arrows from undead bows, clearing them from the walls one by one. The gates, with a great groan, finally leaned into the city and crashed to the feet of those who were left to defend them, and the hoards poured in.
To describe the cries of men who have no avenue of escape as they fight and die as cattle led to slaughter would be as hopeless a task as their plight. Never was so bitter a battle fought as all order left our men, and our banners fell to the earth. Those closest to the eastern gate turned and charged desperately into the river of death pressing in from it. Some made it out through desperation and strength of arms, most fell and died in the attempt. As the last men fought to the end of their strength, the sorceresses of darkness converged on the great beacon of the city, and with a great flash of light and a deafening shock, the beam crashed to the earth and detonated in shards of glass and ancient stone.

Men who made it to our last 3 strongholds, the cities of Thirian, Glaroz, and Telthos, fell in exhaustion and fits of insanity, our healers treating burns that dissolved flesh instead of consuming it, and the many wounds that battle could incur.

At this news, it was a very strained calm that was kept in Thirian. It seemed only the strength of our King and our Mages in confidence and calm kept our people from running in fear. What they did not know was that even we were afraid. Before a vile poison claimed him, Frain, the steward of Telfon, whispered a name. Beothell, the sorceress of our fathers, had led the attacks that had undone hundreds of years of peace. Not even our eldest scholar or mage knew how she had kept the march of time at bay. There was not one who wished to find out.
There would be no time to bury the dead, and so here I now record:

 Frain, son of Sefrain, of the house of Telfon, keeper of our realm.

Along with him

Garensel, Daughter of Suriel, Keeper of the light of Fena, House of the mirrored pool,

Darian, Son of Dariel, Keeper of the light of Lirian, House of the Wandering Oak,

Thurial, Son of Darthel, Keeper of the light of Selfrost, House of the White Crane,

Valien, Son of Vallarian, Keeper of the light of Kelthos, House of the Morning Star,

And lastly, Viliria, Daughter of Vallarian, Keeper of the light of Sedran, beloved of her people, House of Moonlight.

"Lament not the fallen sons,
Our brethren laid to rest,
Their spirits dance by firelight,
Tis no longer their bitter fight,

Of flowered fields and memory sing,
The days before their rest.".

~Lament ye not,
A song taken from a time of peace, in celebration of a life lived and passed.
Sung by a daughter of the house, a relative, or a friend who mourns their passing. It reminded our people of joy in hardship and helped us to celebrate passing the veil.