The Nine Rivers
From the veins of Ennea—the Soulheart—flow the Nine Rivers, ever winding through the timeless Gardens and far below them in the Endless Dark. The Veilweave tapestry rebuilds—piece by piece—as those who shape its fate rise and fall from power.
Though the world of Elendria survived a Shattering nearly a millennia ago, the Rivers of the Nine endure. Far from the seeing eye, they flow, moving time and souls and destiny towards ends and futures yet unknown.
On Ennea’s favored continent, Daesmoria, life survives in the ruins of the Broken Era—crawling upwards from the ash and dust of sundered magic. Nature claims the Skyborn throne—thriving, evolving,learning. Taking what was small and giving it a voice.
The Cycles come. Water freezes in the Ice, thaws in Fire, turns to rot within the Dark, then bursts with life in Growth—eternal rhythms sweeping over the remnants of the Gardens to test all those within.
The Emerald Moores expand their lazy stretch into the tundras, and the earth shivers as its mountains wax and wane. The ground thirsts,breathes—and with each quake, its ribs spear higher and higher towards what was once the Skyglass.
In these jutting Spines, the Nine Rivers seek a new beginning, cradling a temple lost to time and memory. Nameless, now. Abandoned. Yet, a fated power stirs within.
The winds awaken, clouds gathering above. The Spines stand tall, a faceless witness to these winds of change. Watching. Waiting. Ready.
Far beneath, these winds encircle a pair of riders cloaked in runes and magic.Big men—warriors Elendria has named its legends.
One covered in scars with skin like falling dusk—Zarrek, the Bloodletter—holds a battleaxe half his size at the ready to face any looming threat.
The other carries the title of Resh’Agar—the Arm of the Void. A heavy shadow lingers in his azure eyes, as though that gaze has seen too much over passing centuries. He casts wards to keep the moaning winds at bay.
When these gusts nearly push them from a cliff, they take refuge behind shattered stone.
And from behind the Veilweave, the world—Ennea—watches as fate takes an unexpected turn…
1
The Frozen Star
Iam Resh’Agar, and war is my lifeblood. At the waking of the world, I was forged for battle, filled with madness, bound to the Shields, and taught that my purpose was to bring glory to Krystopolis. And so I do. Without question, without doubt. In cycles of fifteen to twenty years, I leave my Crystal City and go to war on the Surface.
Not just war with men. But nature, too. Surviving its brutality. Standing in the face of its unforgiving whims. Fighting hordes of sentient Creeper Vines in Growth. Slaughtering varkhounds during Dark. My men—my Kelvasari—stand beside me without fear. They, too, do not doubt their purpose as my shadows.
We march. We take. We conquer.
One Campaign after another. One battle after the next.
I seek artifacts of power, expand our territory, and carve new allegiances into sacred parchment and stone alike. If the people will not submit to my god—to the Destroyer—I wade through their blood. Precise. Efficient. Culling. Purging. Until they scream for mercy or die cursing the Resh as they meet their maker.
I suppress the madness, though it is ever present. An itch, just there, at my nape where the scar of the Vargrún lingers.
So it has been for more centuries than I care to remember.
ButthisCampaign has been different. No war. No resistance. Nothing but an endless march from place to place. I grow weary, for most of theworld has surrendered to my legend, thus marking me as obsolete. If I cannot conquer, what am I? If I cannot enforce, what is my purpose?
The humans in the capital of Maradryn continue to rebuild after my last sacking of their city five decades past, licking their wounds even as rebellion and greed stirs within their walls. Ungrateful mortal rabble. Though Krystopolis brings them trade and prosperity, still they buck and thrash beneath its righteous yoke. My brother wants them subjugated. Bound to the Flaeme as all within Krystopolis. But I do not have the patience for such work.
War is easier. Simpler. If I must break them again, I shall.
As for the Gliders—though they are the most powerful race of mortals on the Surface, they will never stand against the Resh’Agar. Not while their Matriarch still bears the scar on her face after her Challenge against me. Not while their shamans tell the story of the Skycleaver and how he broke a thousand wings mid-air.
Amused at the memory, I pat the massive, corded neck of my rune forged steed, Astenos. He snorts in response, tossing his shimmering black mane and shifting his six muscled legs in restless motion beneath me. His glowing blue eyes take in the wilted countenance of my second in command and his mortal mount. Just four legs on that one, and a thirst that hasn’t been sated in hours.
“Your horse can’t take much more of this,” I tell Zarrek.
He looks at me and grimaces, the expression wrinkling the scars slashed across his grizzled face. “You ride like a man possessed,” he says. “I need sleep. My beast needs rest. Not like you and that six-legged demon of yours.”
“We don’t have time for you to sleep,” I remind him, brushing hair from my face as the howling wind spits it into my eyes.
