Prologue of the book I'm writing, I need people to pester me to keep writing :)
| Thousands of years ago marking the end of the age of ancients, there was a war; the most fierce and violent war to this day. It was aptly named the Great War, although there was nothing great about this war. Many died and whole races were pushed to extinction. The magnificent realm of Paladasia was destroyed and reduced to a faint memory. It was a paradigmatic clash of good versus evil and will be remembered by all until the end of time. Deabrion was the most vile and malevolent entity to ever walk the land of Cyrelidon, bringing death and decay in his wake. When the great Spirit created this world a mirror image of this world was made, the Shadow Realm. This hellish dimension was a seemingly necessary evil, as there must always be a balance between good and evil. The Spirit's malicious opposite was Deabrion, the demonic god created to rule the Shadow Realm.
Deabrion’s power is evident when one looks at what Paladasia once was. The crumbling ruins that now stand to the east of Mirkalo were once remarkable buildings that eclipsed even the immense edifices of Avrasia. They were the product of harmony and unity. Numerous races helped to build the majestic empire that was Paladasia and now nothing is left to reveal those concordant times. From Paladasia’s grave grew mistrust and deceit, the fruits of Deabrion’s labour. Such was the devastation, that Paladasia’s name was stripped and the ruinous, overgrown land that exists now was given the title of the Lost Realms. Although it is a far more apposite namesake, the few who remember Paladasia in its glory shed tears at this denouncement, this reminder of what was lost and forgotten. From the perspective of someone with at least basic morals, evil's purpose is to destroy and to annihilate all that brings even the slightest joy. Perhaps it is not Deabrion's fault that he is so consumed by hate and rage. When the Spirit was born from the chaos that was the world in the before time and Deabrion with it, there was most likely little choice of what their inner nature would be.
Deabrion came forth from the Shadow realm, with a vast armada of hellish spawn. Like a disease Deabrion spread across the land consuming everything in his path. It was at the plains of Enith that the Spirit stood against him with its own army of creatures of all races and species. This titanic clash led to pain and suffering so great, it is said that the stars themselves stopped shining and turned away in disgust. To this day, the stars cannot be seen from the plains of Enith, where the Great War took place. Both sides suffered devastating losses and the battle seemed to go on for an eternity until Deabrion's army began to deplete. He and his main forces were pushed back to the twin peaks of Lockeshtait. It was then that Deabrion took all of his power and put it forth into one last, mighty spell, the strongest and most formidable magicks ever to have been performed since the creation of Cyrelidon. The world would have been torn asunder if the Spirit had not shielded its child from the darkness that poured forth from Deabrion. Deabrion was expelled back into the shadow realm, weak and virtually powerless and the dregs of his armies were quickly dispatched afterwards. The Spirit however, was ripped from this dimension and trapped on the astral plane a world just out of reach of Cyrelidon, the world that one sees out the corner of one's eye, the shadows one notices that vanish when looked at directly and the voices one thinks they hear inside their mind. The world of Cyrelidon torn from the nurturing bosom of its maker fell into ruin and an age of misery and hopelessness descended on the once great land. These were known as the lost years.
The Spirit looked on sadly, unable to do anything to help, watching silently as its creation slowly died. But for a time the land did survive without the Spirit's nurturing hand to guide it. This was known as the age of mortals, when the ancient ones had released their grip on Cyrelidon allowing the younger races to become Cyrelidon's stewards. It was a reasonably happy time in which to live but the misdeeds of the past always lay as heavy scars on Cyrelidon. However after nearly five thousand years of peace the shadow rises once again. But, hope remains in the form of a prophecy made by the Oracle herself, not long after the Great War. It reads:
From the grasp of shadows shall Cyrelidon rise again,
Delivered by his vessels,
Two of two, and of blue blood,
They shall undo past wrongs and an era of plenitude and peace will come again,
Only when the sun is consumed by shadow,
And only when the moon falls into blackness shall the evil be banished.