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Posted by on 2004 Apr 8 |

Moon Mages See Raenilar Begin War March

(289 Skullcleaver 375)

Moon mages across Elanthia turned their gaze to the heavens as one of the most significant events of our time took place far to the desert north. These visions appear to be the culmination of the other mysterious visions they have seen in the recent past. Now we know Raenilar was the man in these mysterious visions.

We watched barely without breathing as moon mages related to people all over the Provinces what they saw. I was fortunate enough to have Ileia tell me exactly what she saw.

Here it is as she related it:Darkness obscures your sight, blocking out all images save for that of a large spider web hanging before you, every fiber distinctive despite the innumerable amount used to complete it. With each passing heartbeat, countless strands vanish and appear throughout the complex mesh, constantly changing the appearance of the intricate patterns woven throughout, yet never compromising the overall shape.

A single thread draws your attention, the faint blue glow growing in intensity until it blocks the rest from sight. Watching closely, the line expands and twists until before you appears a moving river of people, their heads hung low in defeat and loss as they plod northward, their every step guarded by armed warriors who stand unmoved and emotionless as one by one the sick and dying collapse to the ground in exhaustion and death.

The glowing thread fades, drifting back into place within the great web hovering before you. Eventually the strand blinks out of existence, replaced by a thousand more, each one glowing faintly as it takes its place among the rest, adding its strength to the whole before it too fades away in its own passing of time. The web begins to spin clockwise, faster and faster until you can no longer make out any one particular strand, but one large glowing wheel of light rotating endlessly. The faded blue light surrounds you, pulling you deeper into its indigo luminescence till suddenly you are standing upon an endless sea of sand. There before you, spread out to form a completed circle, stands an almost endless gathering of warriors, each one bearing the standard of a different desert tribe. All eyes turn to face into the heart of the open desert where a single figure approaches, the wind whipping the sand into a spinning cyclone of dust behind him.

Quietly the lone figure approaches, each proud step carrying him over the sand seemingly without effort, leaving no trace of his passage behind. The gathered cyclone of sand dissipates into a swirling wall of wind and dust, eventually encircling the circle’s perimeter as he walks past the assembled multitude towards the heart of the gathering, seemingly ignorant of the gazes of wonder and curiosity of all those who stand around him. Turning towards each of the collected tribes, he hails their respective commander with a series of hand gestures and whispered words, some returning the greeting while others simply staring back with a look of incredulity. In response to those who appear scornful, he raises his hands high into the air and slowly begins to rise above the desert floor, ascending until all can see him clearly. With a wave of his hand all is silenced, save for a barely audible rumble that echoes softly in your head.

Calmly, clearly, the figure draws in a breath, closing his eyes in concentration for a moment before opening his mouth to speak. “My people. Centuries ago we were banished to this unholy, desolate land because our ancestors fought for a belief that what was rightfully theirs, should remain so. For these beliefs, we were exiled and cast into the desert to die, our memories hidden in shame by those who knew their own desires were craven and full of the cowardly whispers of a foe whose greed sought to take what did not belong to them. But for all their attempts to silence and send our souls to the gods, our strength and will has granted us a chance to reclaim what was stolen. As I speak, our foes gather their numbers in the hopes that they can stop what was set in motion so long ago and once again try to push us back into the sands of the past, to leave the history of our lives to hidden tomes and scrolls of burned and unreadable parchment.”

Gazing across the desert at the gathered masses, he slowly draws forth a weapon of unequaled design and strength, holding it proudly before him. Gazing up into the heavens his voice echoes in a tone that leaves no qu estion of its intent. “I have traveled across these lands to fulfill the challenges laid forth by the gods themselves; to prove myself the one prophesied to lead our tribes out of this accursed land and reclaim our birthright. I bear upon my body the markings of each test just as you have all witnessed within the visions granted by the fates. I have stood within the halls of the tower that marks our lands and witnessed the fear of our return. And now, I stand before you all, to show that I am the one to bring all tribes together as one… A single heart that beats proudly and full of the strength and might that we have fought to retain; a heart that has harbored a single desire that no longer must we keep hidden.”

Turning quietly, the figure gazes deep into your eyes. In a triumphant tone he speaks, his voice echoing across the desert and into the surrounding lands, “I am Raenilar, Warrior King of the tribes of Muspar’i, Outcasts of the province of Illithi. Where once our deaths marked the long road north that we were forced to walk into exile, now shall our journey be marked with the deaths of those willing to stand in the way of justice and revenge. Bear witness to all that is about to transpire, for this storm shall wash over your lands and leave nothing untouched.”

Raenilar stretches forth his hand towards the vast desert behind him where thousands upon thousands of warriors stand, all proudly awaiting the order to complete a promise made generations ago. Slowly, he closes his fingers into a tightly clenched fist then thrusts it high into the air, releasing forth his battle cry that is quickly echoed by a wave cacophonous screams and cries of anger and retribution accompanied by the rhythmic beating of weapons upon shields. All along the horizon a cloud of spinning dust and wind quickly rises into the sky, blocking the intense desert sun from view. Still gazing into your eyes, a soft whisper falls from his lips filled with all the emotion centuries of injustice and strife can equal, “We… are coming home.”

Baresh started working at the Wren’s Nest when it first opened in 349AL. He’s been hearing the news and pouring drinks ever since then.