The Fall of the First City

The chill autumn wind whispers through the leaves and dances among the flickering flames of the campfire. The Talespinner leans forward in his oaken chair, one hand upon his staff decorated with bones, feathers, bells and a dozen other trinkets, and wrapped in vibrant dyed suede. His lined face cracks into a smile, and the firelight glitters off of his golden eyes. “The nights when the veil between worlds grows thin have passed, and a new year is soon upon us. The cold winds will sweep down from the Bitter North, and cloak the world in snow and ice, until the spring comes to shake off the cold once again.” The Talespinner clears his throat and takes a long drink from a wooden cup. “These are when the nights grow long, and the only times when our people are allowed to settle, while the animals and the spirits sleep. I bring to you one of our first tales, passed down through the ages. I will speak it as it was spoken to me many years ago.” “Let us begin when the world was new, Before we were cursed with the eyes of gold, Before the north froze and the Varyka fled south, Before the Silver Tower gazed out over the White Sea, Before the death of Amon Shanzor caused the sky to bleed for a generation, And long before the Empire held the world by the horns.” The flames shrink low for a few brief moments, almost as if the fire itself is bowing in reverence. “This is the tale of the first city, called Ir’Kamath. In the age of the last of the Priest-Kings, his name Harud’Khas, the river that flowed around the city had all but dried up. The fishermen could no longer fish, the crops had become withered and brittle, and the people were starving. Praying to the gods of their people were met with silence. The people tore their clothing, painted their faces with ash, and groveled at the feet of golden statues. Yet still… nothing. Harud’Khas lounged in his palace of ivory and jade, growing ever angry with the sounds of sorrow which reached his ears. He could no longer nap soundly in the heat of the day, for all their wailing, and the bards had to play their instruments louder as he feasted upon the fattest of calves and the most tender of lamb. When his palace gardens began to wilt because the well which had fed them ran dry, he became enraged with the people and with the gods he served. Harud’Khas spent a night in contemplation and called forth his most trusted advisors, a collection of priests. They told him that he had been weak, and that the people had stopped believing in the gods, and that only bringing the people back to worship would please the gods so they might allow the rains to fall.” The Talespinner pauses for a moment, sets his staff aside, and shifts in his seat. He strokes his long beard, and then resumes the story. “He called for the people to sacrifice their goats, and spill their blood before the eyes of the gods, so that it might rain. A thousand sacrifices were made, and the golden feet of the statues were covered in blood. Over the course of the day, winged insects began to gather at the spilled blood, so desperate they were for water. The bodies of the goats were piled high. Days passed, the skies remained clear, the wells remained dry, and the river was barely more than a trickle. Harud’Khas called for blood sport. In the arena where gladiators would fight, they would no longer be permitted to yield, and instead they would fight to the death, to honor the gods. Great warriors fell to the newly sharpened blades of their foes, and blood fell upon the sand of the arena, but rain did not. Days passed and still the skies were clear. That was when the people began to grow ill, as a sickness had crept into the city. At first the lowest among them began to have unquenchable thirst, and what little water they had within them was ejected from their bodies. Harud’Khas spent a night in prayer and darkness. When he emerged upon the balcony of his palace, and looked down upon the people, he did not realize what he was about to unleash upon the city of Ir’Kamath. He gave his longest sermon, blaming the people for turning from the gods, and saying that it was because of the displeasure from those above that the rain had stopped. He then called for the sacrifice of those who did not believe in the gods. And that was when the city burned.” The Talespinner takes a pause, drinking deeply from his cup, and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve before continuing. “Neighbor fell upon neighbor, and people would blame one another for their lack of belief. Those who did not have altars or idols within their homes were slain, and their bodies dragged out onto the streets. Finally, after the streets had been bathed in the blood of the inhabitants, people began to blame Harud’Khas. He had never sacrificed to the gods, as he still fed from the most tender of meat, still drank the best wine, and still lay with the most attractive of concubines. The people stormed the palace, and despite the sharp blades and spears of the guards, by the end they carried the severed head of Harud’Khas, last of the Priest Kings of Ir’Kamath, out into the street. Yet still the rains did not come. The people fled Ir’Kamath, claiming that it was cursed, and in time none could remember where the city stood. Even the gods who had been worshipped became unnamed in time, as they had failed the people and thus should no longer be remembered. Ir’Kamath has all but faded from time itself. Few books speak of it, and rare is it spoken of outside the Zhani, our people. We carry this tale to remind us that sometimes the gods can be cruel and even they can fail us.”