Book 2: Moonrise
The forest slept under the harsh glare of the Sun. However, when night fell and the eye closed, the Sun to closed its eyes and rested. So at night the forest reclaimed what it lost during the day. This tug of war persisted for many cycles, but the Sun was happy to keep it contained and such did not push further than need be. The Sun was wrong.
While the Sun rested, the forest and its tender did not. To keep the Sun unaware it pushed its boundaries each night, while building its own army. The wolves which dared call the forest home were infused by it, their lustrous pelts replaced with corrupted bark, becoming both tree and creature. Others lost their identify, being merged together into an abomination unto the all seeing. The beast worked its crafts, waiting for the time to lash out.
On the new moon, when both eyes of the all seeing were closed, the forest released its agents unto the world to sow its will. The chaos the agents wrought in the night strengthened the forest, but it did not show its hand yet. Content to let the Sun get complacent. With its new strength the tender of chaos found it could enter the dream realm of the tribes and the tribes suffered horrible nightmares.
The Sun , who had so removed itself from the other tribes was unaware of their suffering, focusing itself on the forests advances instead. The tribes fought, old tensions ran high again, mistrust sowed by the forest in the dreams of the tribes festered and grew. Harmony was lost. The forest laughed. The Sun decried itself for having been so blinded by its duty that it had failed at it.
The Sun raged against the forest, pushing it further back then it had ever done. The sun seared the agents of chaos, removing the taint from their bodies. Those to far gone to save, were blessed instead with immolation. The Sun burnt bright and hot, so hot that it burnt itself out. Its powers spent. The tender laughed, showing its hand. Nightmares became reality, the forest grew, engulfing the bastion of the Sun while it recovered. The right eye of the All Seeing would not open, could not open until the Sun recovered. The land was bathed in nighttime eternal.
When the Sun did not rise, the agents of chaos moved freely about the world, doing their master's will.
Insidious spirits assaulted the tribes, born from the dreams of the tribes. Mischievous imps composed of pure magic, twisting the spells of the magic tribe, redirecting their target to those of the other tribes. Savage beasts manifested from the polar north winds, bringing with them the intense cold of their bodies. The more havoc they caused, the stronger and colder they became. Lumbering amalgams of rotting flora and fauna, spreading corruption as it went. Nothing grew, nothing lived within its wake. These new creatures, along side the other minions, marched upon the tribes, intent on causing more chaos and discord to fuel their dark master. The tribes, unable to stand together, fell and were once more scattered.
The magic tribe, full of hubris refused to believe their spells could miss their marks rained bolts of radiant energy onto the forest’s minions. The imps cackled and proved the fallacy of the magic tribe’s thoughts. The bolts all struck true, felling what they hit. Felling the forces of the unblessed and weather blessed, thinning their ranks. Fearing attacks from the back, the other tribes turned on the magic tribe, striking them down with impunity, as they believed the magic tribe had done to them. The tender laughed, strengthened by the infighting, his forces likewise strengthened, pushing the attack.
Skilled in battle, afraid of no foe, the weather tribe used their blessing and attacked from the sky, focused on taking back the weather from the frozen fiends who plagued their cloud homes. They dove in tight phalanxes, driving the nightmares together, surrounding them for a killing feast. The winds howled, the discord from the magic tribe’s ill-fated assault fed the hungry winds. Pooling their frozen might, the polar beasts struck out, freezing the attacking weather tribe soldiers where they flew. Their greatest warriors fell. Their greatest warriors shattered on the ground. Their greatest hope died upon the now frozen ground. The tribe’s lament was like a dinner bell to the dark monsters and the feast of carnage continued.
Stubborn as the land they tended, the “unblessed” or Earth tribe as they now called themselves refused to yield to the beasts. Their strength and durability earned from working the land for time immemorial proved to much for the lesser wolves and chimera fielded by the forest, but their headstrong nature caused them to push when they should have held. Having such success against the lesser creatures they assaulted the horror made of their fauna and their fields. Their slings struck true, but the beast continued unabated, adding to its mass the bodies of the slain, gaining their resilience. Frustration grew, amplified by the unprovoked attack by the magic tribe, the earth forces rushed the beast, war cries on their lips. They touched the walking corruption and feel where they stood. They touched the corruption and the corruption touched them. They touched the corruption and became the corruption. The harbinger of the forest’s wrath marched on. The earth tribe scattered, running for their lives.
There was a fourth tribe, the thrice-touched, made up of all the other tribes, from which the Sun itself had ascended. They had learned from the last time the land revolted and stood united against the horrors. The magic users embraced their original talents, channeling their magic through songs to warm the hearts and bolster the strength of their forces. The imps could not redirect the spells, for the magic tribe nightmares that spawned them had only feared offensive spells, not songs of power. The polar fiends tried freezing the thrice-touched, but the warmth of the spell and of their united harmony diminished their power. Spears and slings from the soldiers slew the imps and scattered the winds. Those that survived broke from the will of their master and fled the field. All that remained was the monstrous beast that had gorged itself on the fallen. Unable to touch it the forces threw all the magic bolts, slings, and spears they could, none slowed its inevitable progress. The forest fed on the despair of the thrice-touched, for theirs was the sweetest, proving to it that not even harmony could stop him.
Desperate for relief they sent an emissary to the Bastion of the Sun, hoping something could be done to bring the Sun back to them. The one they sent was the younger sister of the sun, barely old enough to remember when the ascension happened. She sought her sister, more fearful of what had happened to her than of the discord running rampant through the land. The forest had engulfed the fortress, surrounding it with its most fierce guardians and treacherous obstacles. She pushed on despite these challenges. Her loyalty to family, to friends and the honest pledge that she would return with aid bolstered her. What memories of her sister she had were of kindness and laughter, they warmed her from the cold darkness of the forest. Battered and bruised she arrived at the castle, ready to free her sister.
The emissary was shocked at what she found upon arriving. The sun had truly fallen, no longer was its hair the luster of dawn, but a flat gray. The warm glow that warmed one from within had faded to nothingness. Features gaunt and tired, barely recognizable to her sister. She prayed to the All Seeing, ready to give generously of herself, all of herself if need be to revive the Sun, to revive her sister. Like her sister she was not marked by any of the tribes, but still she tried to use magic as her tribesman used. The All Seeing wept for a second time at this love filled feat. The tears from her left eye struck the sister, igniting a spark of magic deep down inside of her. Another became marked of all the tribes. Another one ascended. The Moon rose. The All Seeing was further diminished.
Renewed the sister, now the moon, looked upon her sister, now more so than she was before. The cool refreshing moonlight, the same that renewed those that slept emanated from her body, renewing the Sun. Her features returned. Her radiance was renewed; the sun also rose that day. The mystic bound between them now allowed the Sun to see what the Moon had seen, know what the moon knew. The sun was shocked at what had transpired while she slept and despaired at her foolishness. The Moons calmed her sister’s worries and together they departed for the battlefield, hoping that they’d not be to late.
The defenders fell before the abomination, now larger than the magic tribes fabled castle. Flagging from exhaustion, losing hope, yet still they fought on. When the last of their reserves were utterly spent, they found their hope renewed. The coolness of the night, the restfulness of slumber imbued them, their strength returned. Their emissary returned, the moon shown brightly upon them, their wounds healed. They fought on, protected from the corruption’s touch by the soothing balm of the moon’s light. Bolts of lunar energy struck the beast, slowing its advances, but it would still not stop and the trice-touched would not yield. The stalemate continued.
The dawn came at last. The Sun rose, fully restored. The radiance burnt away the corruption, searing the blight from the land. The Moon soothed the land, restoring life to it. The beast’s strength and size diminished, the dark master seeing the inevitable withdrew its influence from the abomination. The abomination, no longer with a guiding will, no longer with a binding force fell apart, seeping into the land. The Forest’s roots still ran deep drank the energy back into itself. The dark one once again bidding its time waiting for the next sign of weakness, waiting for the next game to start.
The thrice-touched pledged their services to the sisters and to the restoration of the land, so harmed by the conflict. The other tribes fled the land, done dealing with the cursed forest and blighted lands. They made their new homes far a field in a land not as fertile, not as rich as the one they left, but it contained none of the malignant malice that had so plagued them for generations in the old land. Once again, the precarious peace descended upon the three tribes. The northern winds howled in the mountain passes; some nightmares are harder to destroy than others.