A shower of ethereal starlight hangs in the firmament, where spiraling, woven constellations crown the celestial nebulas. The cosmos blooms, swelling with stellar tears that freckle the night sky. A starry monsoon plummets through the shattered void. Divine tears rain down on the mortal world, falling through a dome of shattered glass. The razor-sharp shards sway in the wind, lilting eerie melodies. Raindrops cascade down the quivering glass blades before plummeting onto a malevolent altar.
The Third Great Age. Great Cycle 3003.
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Mystical moonlight seeps through a dome of shattered glass, casting ghostly sheens on a wicked altar. The stench of death hangs heavy in the air, reeking of rusted iron, blood, and damp stone.
Queen Eiwelf of Galt lies bound to a colossal butcher's block, her mouth stitched tight with coarse twine. Her pallid skin shines, in stark contrast to the blood-soaked wood reserved for cleaving meat and hacking bones. Tears stream down Queen Eiwelf's tormented face onto her torn lips, collecting in pools of shredded flesh. She strains against her taut binds with darting eyes, choking on tears and rain.
A theater of candlelit balconies encircles the altar. Faint murmurs drift along with elusive whispers that linger on the fringes of her perception. Their muffled mutters intertwine with the distant drips of water. Their hollow gazes focused, unwavering, upon her moonlit captivity from the dungeon's gloomy eaves. Hooded and cloaked, their grotesque masks, carved from waxen bone, have twisted features that are neither human-like nor animal-like. The masked congregation stands enshrouded in veiled darkness with flickering candlelight that casts dancing shadows on their masked faces.
"My lords. Servants," a clipped voice echoes, sinister and laconic. "You know why we are here, and it has been no easy undertaking." The tone cuts through the air like a brutal lash. "Our covenant is unassailable, and our actions are absolute." The Black Mage asserts his dominance over his followers.
"As it was, so it will be." Hushed breaths weave through the congregation, harmonizing with the dark mage's commands.
Queen Eiwelf looks up to the heavens, seeking divine intervention, but her tear-blurred vision reveals only the warped skull of a stag looming down upon her. Etched at the mask's center, a single, sorcerous eye pulsates with insidious craft.
"Loyal servants, the time of rejoicing is close. Here lies our offering, bearing the one of old." The dark mage's fingers glide across Queen Eiwelf's skin with a sinister tenderness. She shudders with revulsion and hisses in defiance through bound lips, unyielding to his authority.
A chorus of murmurs swells, ascending into an overwhelming cacophony. The followers' movement is one, an orchestrated ballet of reverence as they sway in harmony. "As it was, so it will be."
"Disciples." The masked priest raises his right arm, pointing towards the heights of the dungeon. His sharp index finger traces over each member of his flock, his voice emanating from a chasm of fractured bone. "You have pledged your sacred oaths, from which there is no absolution. You have forged the Lord's resurrection over countless generations. The price of Ana's resurgence is blood, war, and ruin." He tightens his grip on the disciples; his gestures radiate an air of dominance, each movement a command etched in shadow.
"As it was, so it will be." An elated chorus resounds, thunderous and defiant. Their oaths weave through the air, binding each follower to their cause.
The black mage's palm comes to rest upon the queen's expectant womb. "The seed you carry will restore the ancient world." A profound stillness fills the crypt. "Servants of Ana, it is time. She is ready to bloom." The sorcerer's triumphant voice echoes throughout the dungeon.
A shiver runs through the congregation, their robes fluttering. "As it was, so it will be." The masked congregation sway in unison, resounding in exultation.
The black mage raises both arms, then lowers them, plunging the followers into sudden silence. The dark mage's fingers twitch and weave, the congregation's obedience hanging on the strings of his mastery. He circles the altar, his spindly fingers strumming on threads of veiled sorcery.
"I alone have mastered the ancient grimoires and the celestial tablets. In the depths of the eternal abyss, I glimpsed our destiny." The masked conjurer gazes upward, towards his congregation. His body crackles with amethyst sparks of malevolent power. "Our coming lord shall lay waste to all, reducing our adversaries to piles of debris and dust. Upon the ruins of the third age, we shall rebuild the old dominion. As it was in before the first great age, so shall it be in ours." The Black Mage displays his unquestionable authority, meticulously calculating every movement and word.
The air pulses with evil energy as the dark sorcerer leans over Queen Eiwelf. His gentle hands caress her swollen belly as his voice chants forbidden incantations, which echo throughout the chamber. The mage's hands carve the air like a conductor, orchestrating his authority. Energy pulsates throughout the chamber as the black magician arches his back beneath the shattered glass dome.
The devout fall to their knees as the dungeon's light transforms into an eerie amethyst glow that paints the congregation's masked visages in otherworldly hues. Sorcery is palpable in the air, like an electrifying static charge intertwined with the suffocating stench of rot.
The mage advances toward the queen, her bloodshot eyes clenched tight to shut out the horrors of the night. She feels his fingertips glide over her body. His touch is as light as silk and as delicate as first love. Her blood flows as his fingernails, sharp as razor blades and tender as kisses, carve into her form. Lost in his macabre artistry, he claws intricate mystical symbols into her body, transforming her into a living tapestry. His fingernails etch the flesh with gruesome grace, tracing arcane symbols that pulse with ungodly energy beneath her skin. Her blood trickles, then gushes. The once-pale figure, illuminated by soft moonlight, now surges with crimson tides. Her blood turns as black as coal and as thick as tar as a web of creeping black veins spreads across her body.
Queen Eiwelf drifts into another realm, immersed in an infinite ocean of serene starlight, as her life spills into the abyss. The cosmos blooms, swelling with stellar tears that plummet through the void. Her visions of celestial wonder transform into frigid, deathly black. The darkness steals the light.
The black mage, chanting his wicked hymns, reaches into his crimson robes and retrieves a rolled leather satchel. He places it on the altar, unfurling it to reveal an array of terrifying, razor-edged instruments. He conceals his artistry with his robes, draping them over her body. His gleaming blade glides through her flesh with surgical precision, carving her from hip to hip and from navel to ribs. He reaches into the warm cavity and retrieves the babe from her womb. A gentle cry, a soft gurgle. The mage raises the newborn high for all to see.
"As it was, so it will be." Enraptured, the disciples raise up their hands, unified in spirit, worshipping in exultant fervor.
The mage severs the umbilical cord with a swift flick of his blade. A monstrous crack of thunder splits the air. The ground quakes, time weeps, and the world convulses in fury as chaotic winds scream in remorse. Birds plummet from the shattered sky, scattering upon the earth. Beasts of the field stampede in frenzied panic, and countless souls grasp at fleeting moments of violence. Fields of crops wither and die, and fertile flower beds turn to putrid rot.
Queen Eiwelf's back arches, and her leather binds snap. She levitates upright as swirling inky shadows coil around her as her blood congeals into a brittle, crusty layer of bark. Then, like a fractured stone, her masonry body crumbles away, disintegrating until only fine soot remains. A warm breeze stirs, carrying the soot into a vast cloud that drifts skyward through the broken dome. The faint silhouette of a dusky black dragon emerges, rising into the thunderous sky.
"Behold, servants! Our Lord, Ana, is reborn." Jubilant, the Black Mage raises the babe in triumph, demanding affirmation from his loyal followers. The congregation rises and sings a hymn of rejoicing. "As it was, so it will be. The Lord Ana is reborn. The Lord Most High. Ana, the Ancient One. Curse the light."
The black priest wraps the child in a blanket and cradles the newborn with solemn reverence. The mage's malefic touch taints the infant's first breath of life as the child's molten eyes absorb the prophesied sight of his new kingdom. A faint whisper drifts on the wind, its words indistinguishable in the breeze. Then a mighty gust of wind roars, "They are here."
A murderous cloud of sinuous black shadows emerges from the shattered dome, spewing a twisted language of vile chitters, chatters, clicks, and guttural squelches. The Umbal, or shadow demons, soar above the congregation. They then cling to the dungeon's walls, which writhe with the unholy black wraiths like maggots over a rotten corpse.
"Do not fear the Umbal." The powerful black magician cradles his king close to his bloodied chest, and he looks up at the masked congregation. "The Umbal have not dwelt within our realm for three thousand great cycles. They herald the time of change. Freed from the bondage of Eldriven, the Umbal now thrive in our domain. Their purpose is to guard and serve Ana, the protectors of the king of old." He pulls the newborn closer to his chest.
"As we, the faithful, gather, King Eiden trades with your lives. The Kingdom of Galt has gifted its wealth to lesser realms for too long. Your gold, your blood, and your toil fatten other kingdoms." The black mage's words become vehement. "They gorge upon your riches as you starve, reduced to begging like hounds for scraps from Thiel's table."
The congregation seethes with anger; their initial elation is now replaced by loathing. The restless murmurs rise in discord.
"A time will come when our Lord, Ana, will sit upon the throne of Galt." The black priest lowers his hands, gesturing for silence. "The ancient king, reborn, will reclaim all that is yours by right and will lay waste to all who oppose you."
"As it was, so it will be." The theater of followers rises, their devout eyes captivated by his every movement, hanging on every word.
The Black Mage's control permeates every aspect of his being. "Disciples of Galt, do not forget your heritage." The black priest speaks to his disciples in hushed tones. "The ancient bloodline of Elsan will not suffer another generation of servitude. As prophesied, Ana will forge the mightiest legion since the first age. Your king, our Lord Ana, shall conquer all."
"As it was, so it will be." A conquering chorus reverberates through the dungeon. The chamber trembles as the congregation cries out for blood and war.
"Ana is vulnerable. His human form is fragile." The mage rubs the child's forehead, and the infant squirms. Bold, wolfish eyes peer back at him from a face matted with black blood. "He will suffer the same ailments and vulnerabilities as any child, boy, or man. His body requires nurturing and care; we must hone his powers. I shall entrust Ana to Morana."
An approving chorus echoes throughout the congregation.
"Go now and remain true to your sacred vows. My lords, extend your condolences to King Eiden. Queen Eiwelf has passed away because of complications in childbirth. Rejoice, for he has a son. He has an heir."
"As it was, so it will be," cheers erupt, bouncing off the crypt walls. The shadow horde of Umbal flies out of the shattered dome, screeching with hideous howls into the ominous night.
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In the borderlands of Thiel, high above the drifting clouds in the Kabel Monastery, High Priest Anon awakens from a nightmare full of unyielding darkness as the kingdom's crumble and the world of Avos fall into unbridled chaos. Tens of thousands perish in a world engulfed in flames. A colossal black figure stands upon a mountain of shattered bones and decaying corpses. The Primordial Son and Lord of Chaos, the Demon of Decay, and the embodiment of all brutal conflicts and atrocities. The Ancient One, the Old Enemy. Ana.
"The One, save us."
The darkness steals the light.