A Brief History of Erth: the Year of the Dead

The following seems to be a dissertation, perhaps for an exam, of the same anonymous student of Pahelis the Lesser.

For two hundred years after the first Siege of Mikhail, the affairs of Man remained the same. Ever did the Darkon drive his forces towards Mount Boltar, ever did the Wasteland resist him in it's peoples and it's mountains and in it's very nature. Ever did the slaves toil in the mines and in the fields and among the craft halls, shortening their already miserable lives in order to feed the endless pit that was the Darkon's logisitical needs. Ever was the cream of Humanity and all the other races plucked forth just as it ripened and hurled towards the inexhaustible morass of the Wastern Campaign.

Yet progress was made, for the Darkon held wile and cunning and tactical brilliance equal to the wisdom and foresight and compassionate creativity that had once been the Archon. And at last, there came the day when the slopes of Mount Boltar could be seen from the tops of the Darkon's siege engines. And within another year, his forward bulwarks were within the shadow of the Mount itself. And within another year, his advance scouts and guerillas were climbing the Mount. And within another year, the Mount was surrounded and the Seige of Mount Boltar was engaged.

But Mount Boltar is the most massive of crags, rising from the Desolation Plains like a titanic black Moon setting over the ocean. Even the boundless armies of the Darkon could not encircle it entirely, although walls could, and another decade passed while breastments and watchtowers were constructed about the foot of the Mount, and another countless multitude of slaves met their deaths in the construction.

Deep in the recesses of her murky underworld, Santara and her consort Baccalon drew their breaths in anticipation, for at long last, the plans that had begun nearly a millennium ago were drawing nigh to fruition. The Legions of the Dead stirred, for the anticipation of their goddess blew new unlife over them all. And the tunnelers and delvers among Great Dead renewed their efforts, for their time was soon, and the shell between Erth and underworld became more and more fragile.

And so the siege of Mount Boltar persisted, with nightly battles between those who would escape or scavenge for sustenance and those who would prevent them, and always the casualties mounted. Mount Boltar is the most hostile of environments and the most difficult in which to campaign and the attackers were ever fighting uphill at tremendous disadvantage. But the greatest challenge of all was the consolidation of all the remaining races of the Waste into a single, homogenous Defending Army, for the Darkon had forced them all into the same place and forged them all into the same purpose.

More and more distraught became the Darkon as the years passed and Mount Boltar remained unbroken. The perimeter of earthwork and guardsmen crept further up the mountain with each passing year, but even the nigh inexhaustible resources of Alannis and it's conquered territories could not forever maintain such a mighty siege that was so many hundreds (and from some places in Alannis, thousands) of miles away. It became clear to the Darkon, for the first time, that he may not win, and the siege became a race to see whether the defenders would fail before the Darkon's resources gave out.

Desperate Men attempt desperate actions, and so it was with the Darkon, as he sought new Allies amongst forces best left unsaid. These forces are always ready the call of Man, awaiting only the slightest of invitations, and the Darkon's invocations were anything but slight invitations. And so the Eastern Army was augmented by things unseen and other things that could be seen but in the seeing, would leave the beholder with nightmares.

Even in his despairing dementia, the Darkon knew that action must come soon; not in another decade, not even in another year, but now, immediately, before his Human and non-human troops quailed and broke before his new allies. And so the order was given: A final all-out assault, win or lose the Campaign on the results of a single day's battle. There would be three waves: East, Northeast, and South. The Darkon would personally lead the assault from the East face with his Diamondback bodyguards, and his phalanx of new allies, for it suited him to make the final attack be yet another advance to the West.

As dawn broke, a great shout arose from the Eastern armies and the charge up the Mount began. Like the Campaign itself, the final assault began well, and soon the Darkon and his wave had reached the final walls of the great citykeep Boltar. The other waves were lagging though, allowing the defenders to concentrate on the Darkon's assault, and the battle became a confusing series of thrust and retreat, charge and counterattack. Walls fell as the Darkon's sappers discharged their duties, but not many, and the mighty siege engines could nether reach the walls from their current position nor scale the Mount to get within range. And so the battle raged, and it was a very near thing, untellable whether the result would be victory or defeat.

And then night fell. And in every way, Hell broke loose.

Two hundred miles to the east of Mount Boltar, there lay a very long and very deep chasm called Hellsmouth. It is said that within the many twists and tunnels of the chasm lies concealed the entrance to the underworld. Perhaps before this night the legends were untrue, but on this night, as the siege of Boltar reached its apex, the ground beneath the deepest parts of Hellsmouth fell away, revealing the legions of dead dwarves and gnomes and umber hulks and many others who had dug away the seal between Erth and Underworld at Santara's order.

Nearly a thousand years ago Santara had set upon her course to get around the New Order of Dunamis. Perhaps she can no longer set foot upon the Primal Plane; but she can bring her own Plane in conjunction with the Primal, and thereby win both. But it was not enough to merely connect the two: the event would need to coincide with a great cataclysm on Erth, one that would incapacitate the Erth-dwellers and their weak gods and ease the way for the Sleeping goddess and her endless dead. And so she and Baccalon made their schemes and plotted their plots, and learned how to influence Man in small ways that would, over time, have large effects.

And so now, with Man in all his races in his most weakened state, a flood of dead arose from Hellsmouth and began to spill forth in all directions. Everything living in the path of the dead that could not escape was slain, whether evil or good, as small as a mouse or as large as a Wyrm. And all that were slain would rise again that night as undead and join the dead in their march across Erth.

On Boltar, the Darkon's situation quickly became untenable when his new allies, Hordling Baatezu who had made the Darkon believe were bound to his invocation, turned on him in allegiance to their true master Baccalon. The Darkon, his Diamondbacks, and his Men were sore put upon and forced to retreat back down the Mount towards their defensive works. Without the threat of the main attack, the Boltar defenders were free to concentrate on the northeastern and southern waves and both were shortly repulsed.

In the darkness, all was confusion and terror and Men from the East scrambled to find places of safety while the Men from the Waste kept close pursuit and the gibbering Hordlings found prey on both sides. But the Darkon is himself a Man of great power, having lived for a millenium, and having been touched by Dunamis Powerhurler. And he wields the Orb and Scepter and Crown of Humanity, artifacts of great strength. The Darkon caused himself to flare with the blinding light of the Sun, and with terrible mien he waded into the mass of Hordlings and Wastern Men and those who did not flee before him were slain.

In the respite gained by the Darkon's counter-attack, the Diamondbacks and the braver Men began to seek out and rally the survivors of the Darkon's army, and by night's end, barely two hundred thousand Men and allies remained assembled where there had been two million, and the Wastern Men and Hordlings retreated from the fury of daylight back into the still-standing fastnesses of Mount Boltar. The great Wastern Campaign was ended. The Waste had won.

In the silence of dawn, as the Darkon pondered the remains of his great army and the destruction of his great plan, a voice spoke within him. It was his Consort, the Sylvan Mikhail, who's mystic communications were at last able to break through the Darkon's clamor of War and Conquest. And she wore the face of fury and also hopelessness. "You have destroyed us all" she wailed and moaned in her anger and defeat, "for you have given all of Erth to the dead". And she bespoke to him of the events at Hellsmouth, and showed him the blight that was spreading, as quickly as a man may march, in all directions from the planar conjunction.

And the Darkon realized the extent of his folly, and worse, that he had not been the conquering Dominator of all that was not Human, but rather the pawn of another. And with his defeat, the Darkon shrunk within himself, and a small piece of Archon resurfaced, and was aghast and bleakened at the toll he had wrought.

But with the return of the Archon came also some of the wisdom and aspiration that had been his in ages past, and the Archon saw what he must do and began again issuing his orders. And Ouray and the other surviving generals were heartened, for action is always better than hopeless inaction. The Eastern Army was no longer strong enough to besiege the Waste but it remained the largest living force on Erth outside of Mount Boltar. But it alone could not hope to deal with the masses pouring out of Hellsmouth. Worse, Hellsmouth was directly between the Army and the Wailing Bridge, it would be near impossible to reach the Bridge ahead of the swarm of dead.

Instead, the Army would begin heading East at full march, partly to escape the Hordlings and Wastern Men of Mount Boltar who would surely be attacking as soon as they understood the change in situation, but more to get as close as possible to the East. Individual regiments would be airlifted ahead by the units that had flying mounts and the handful of surviving mages that knew Teleport. The first regiments would go directly to the Wailing Bridge - they would not be able to hold it of course, but perhaps could buy some time. The rest would be shuttled in waves, but not to the Bridge; they were to go home, to each of their homes, all over Alannis and all over the Mainland, and warn their families and villages and make whatever preparations they could.

The Archon (for surely this was the Archon now) gave the Scepter and the Orb to Ouray, with instructions to take the Scepter to Mikhail that she may use it for her defense, and to keep the Orb until the Archon's return and if all else fails, wield it in defense of Alannis itself. There is some dispute over the exact words that the Archon used in the remainder of his instructions, but most agree that the Archon had either a task to accomplish, or an atonement to earn, or perhaps both. All agree that he kept the Crown.

For the first time in decades, a call for volunteers went out in the Eastern Army, for those who would guard the Wailing Bridge would surely never return home, and the Archon would not follow the Darkon's path of orders and Domination. And the Men of the East showed that they could evidence valor as well as follow orders, for the volunteers outnumbered the available mounts. Messengers were dispatched to get word out to the world as quickly as possible, and the Army set out towards the East, toward home, and most likely, toward their deaths. But the Archon did not accompany the Army, and was not in the volunteer regiment, and was not among the messengers.

Surprisingly, there had been no pursuit by the Wastern Men - it quickly became apparent that they were as much endangered by the Hordlings and the dead as were the Men of the East. The dead reached Mount Boltar in two months. No account of this remains although it is known that Mount Boltar, valiant defender against the greatest living army in this history of Erth, fell before the flowing steams of the dead.

But of the Archon there was no word.

In the Mainlands, and in Alannis, there had been joy as the slave pens were disassembled and the slaves returned to their homes, but it lasted but a moment as the knowledge of what was coming spread throughout the land. Many chose to join the defenders at the Wailing Bridge, or Ouray and the group gathering at the Ring of Dunamis. Many returned to their mines and craftshops, even without the whip of the overseer, for weapons and supplies were never more in need than now. Most chose to take their families and try to find a place of safety. No one was considered a coward for all of these actions speak of duty and courage. For the first time in centuries, again Human and non-Human worked side by side to achieve a common goal. Many wounds were healed in this short time that had taken years to acquire. Not all of course, and there were occasional problems as scarce resources were distributed and the "best" places of safety filled to capacity.

In Mikhail, the Sylvan queen renounced Human ownership of the land of Mikhail and returned it officially to it's previous occupants. But this was gesture as much as anything else, for many occupants had been relocated, some quite far away, and no one was moving all of the Humans who now resided there. The land retained the unofficial name Mikhail, for what else is one to call it after so many years, but now the Queen ruled in fact even if no longer in name and directed the defensive buildup, while the Dracenian Dwarves returned to their mines and spent their efforts on their own defenses.

Almost immediately after the opening of Hellsmouth, a great wave of Wastern peoples began to arrive at the Wailing Bridge. But no one would let them pass, for the hatred of the Wastern invasion and the great Campaign remained. Hundreds of thousands gathered on the Wastern end of the bridge, without food or shelter, and many died. In the end it was the Arborian Elves, those who had been most ravaged by the Waste and the events surrounding it, that chose to stand for Good and allow the refugees to pass. Once opened, the flow continued unabated and many Wastern peoples found themselves in the Mainland, establishing populations where there had been none before.

Still there was no sign of the Archon.

It took four months for the dead to reach the Wailing Bridge. By then roughly 150,000 of the Eastern Army had gotten out of the Waste through the air. The remnant of the great Eastern Army made brave noises and jokes as the last flight of air mounts got away, and made brave plans to live "ranger's lives', feeding off the land and avoiding the ever-growing sea of dead, but all knew that no one left behind would be seen again.

The stand at the Bridge ended as all knew it would. To the credit of the defenders, it was another two weeks before the dead overwhelmed the defenses (some of which had stood since the original Wastern invasion) and begin to spread into the Mainland. The pace at which the tide of dead spread was slowed, partly by the heroic stand but mostly by the bridge itself - only so many dead could pass at one time. But inevitably they did pass, never sleeping, never pausing, stopping only long enough to slay again and thereby swell their ranks even further.

The Archon remained silent and separate.

As had happened at Arboria earlier, a tide of refugees bore down on the Ring of Dunamis at Mikhail. Thousands of thousands, all owning only what they could carry, most having been through hardship already just in the travel to Mikhail, some of whom were Wastern peoples who had been driven all the way from the far side of the Wailing Bridge. The Ring guardians attempted to control the tide of Man, it is not safe to cross the Ring in such numbers, but the flow of terrified transients quickly overwhelmed the guardians who could only stand by and watch as en masse the mob began streaming over the Ring. The first groups across flowed over the keeps and looted the supply stations, but the remainder were unswayed by the difficulties and swept over in their multitude.

Many thousands perished of thirst or were trampled or were simply slain by accident as the mass of Man attempted the crossing in such numbers that the Ring was entirely coated with Man, as a moss coats a rock, for it's entire length. The dead were tossed over the side in such numbers that the ocean teemed with millions of fish, swarming so darkly that they obscured the ocean surface. Unscrupulous ship captains made huge amounts of money in a single crossing, while scrupulous ones made the ferrying trip as quickly as they could with as many aboard as possible.

Alannis bulged with the numbers of peoples arriving, of all kinds, both of East and of West. The Wastern peoples were not warmly welcomed, for the Humans of Alannis had spent many centuries and many many lives against them. Incidents were frequent, and often bloody. For their own safety, the Wastern peoples gathered together in numbers and went in search of places far from Humans.

Meanwhile, the dead continued their macabre march through the Mainlands, north and south and east. Pockets of living remained, quickly learning the rules of this new war: Never fight them in numbers, never leave your fallen behind, best of all try to seal yourself up and avoid fighting altogether. But the dead never slowed, never needed supplies, never cared at their losses.

Humanity, and all Men, wondered at the absence of the Archon

Five months after the fall of the Wailing Bridge, the rush of dead swept across Mikhail and again the Fortress at Ringfoot was threatened. The defenses at the Fortress were among the oldest and greatest of Erth: but what use is a wall when the enemy will clamber up piles of it's own corpses? What aid is a catapult when the field is filled with dead as far as can be seen; throughout it's length and breadth? Again, the living fought courageously, but again, the ending was inevitable. Even the Scepter of Humanity, wielded by the valiant queen Mikhail, can only stop so many dozens of dead at one time. And there was no end to the dozens of dead.

The queen continued to stand her post even as the inner keep walls were being swamped. Denethor, leader of the Wolflings, a people who had taken the Oath and Turned to the Archon early in the Great Campaign, begged the queen to retreat to the Ring, and the temporary safety of Alannis. But she was adamant and stalwart, for her place was where she was, and her action needed to be what she was doing. Denethor entreated on the queen, for the hearts of all the defenders would fail were she to be taken, and worse, returned to fight as one of the dead. But still the queen could not be swayed. And so, seeing no alternative, Denethor made another Oath. He drew his silver wolf-headed mace, the icon of his people. "My Lady", he swore, holding his mace next to his heart, "I swear by the lives of myself and my people, no dead shall pass the Ring while we live. No dead shall touch the soil of Alannis while a drop of our blood remains unspilt. We shall give you, and the remaining Men here in the Fortress, time to cross the Ring and help prepare defenses. We shall not fail. So we swear."

The valor of Denethor, not even a Man but half-Man half-Wolf, so moved the queen that she acquiesced to Denethor's wishes and agreed to retreat herself and what remained of her forces. As she raised the Scepter she Blessed Denethor "With this, the Scepter of Humanity, I state for now and all time that you are a Man among Men, above Men, in a place where we are surrounded by courage and fortitude and sacrifice, you and your people have stood above all others. I wish for Humanity that we may learn to hold ourselves to your example, and I wish for you and your people the strength and skill to live to talk about this day and teach it to our children". With those words, she touched the Scepter to Denethor's mace, and it began to glow with a crackling white light.

It was as Denethor swore. He and his people, young and old, man woman and child, took up arms and stood at the Foot of the Ring. In the center stood Denethor, holding aloft his crackling mace, as the surviving Fortress defenders escorted the queen up the Ring towards Alannis. Then the dead came. And came. And came. With each wave, Denethor would stride forward to meet them, and cleave their center with mighty side-to-side sweeps. And his people would converge to either side and stop whatever dead made it past the crackling death that was Denethor and his mace.

But the dead devised a new strategy, and advanced in two columns, one to either side of the heroic Wolfling. The Ring is a span wide enough to hold twenty men across standing shoulder to shoulder, and no one man can defend the entire span. And so the Wolflings were slowly, step-by-step, driven up the Ring. But they made the cost for the dead exceeding high, and enormous piles of rotting bodies littered the Ring surface. The Wolflings adopted a strategy of sleeping in shifts, and fighting in shifts, that all may have a time however brief to eat and replenish. Never once did Denethor relinquish his post, fighting day and night, without food or water, seemingly powered by his Oath and his honor and nothing else.

The queen arrived safely in Alannis and there met Ouray, but still the Wolflings fought on, still keeping their Oath, still contesting every inch of the 150 mile Ring path. Mikhail and Ouray wondered at the Oath of the Wolflings, and sent scouts back up the Ring to find their fate. When word came back that the Wolflings were still holding, Ouray sent up fresh troops and weapons and supplies. But the Wolflings waved off the reinforcements, accepting only the weapons and supplies, for the entire people were driven by Denethor's Oath and none would stand down. The reinforcements, awed in the face of such bravery, could do nothing but post watchers and return to Ouray bearing the incredible tale.

And so passed a week. And then a second week. And a third week. And all this time Denethor danced and leapt among the dead, smashing and bludgeoning again and again, and none of the dead could touch him in his battle frenzied ecstasy. But his people could be touched, and were, and soon the sleeping shifts were shorter and shorter, and always, the dead were there, day and night, taking every inch that was yielded. The Wolflings held the Ring for a full cycle of the moon. For the last two days of the Battle for the Ring, the crackling mace of Denethor could be seen from Ringston, creeping closer and closer as the dead continued their slow advance.

At last Denethor and his people, of which remained only a dozen, were standing on the very last reaches of the Ring. Ouray ordered a storm of arrows and spells to support the Wolflings as they turned, and at last gave up their burden and stepped onto the soil of Alannis. The dead were driven back, albeit only for the moment. A great cry went up for the Wolflings, and Men of all kinds rushed forward to hoist the survivors on their shoulders and carry them to waiting cots, and food, and healing. But Denethor refused to be carried. "I walked this far" he said, "But I am done walking now". And with those words, Denethor died, overcome at last by 30 continuous days of the greatest fighting known to Man. He was smiling when he died.

The Archon continued to be invisible.

The time purchased at so great a cost by Denethor and the Wolflings had been put to good use. A strategy was developed, based on the lessons learned defending the Fortress and the Ring, where the dead, leaving the Ring, would have to pass a great stone flooring that had been built to overlook the sea. Mighty water cannons fired continuously, washing the dead across the stone flooring and into the ocean. There they could be picked off individually as they struggled across the beach and foundered onto shore. And the strategy worked, for a time, and Ringston stood for another month. Yet it was inevitable that at some point the strategy would falter, through fatigue or misstep or simple mechanical breakdown. Ringston fell at night, by surprise, as the defenders had grown accustomed to the success of the water cannons. Queen Mikhail was lost in the fall of Ringston, and with her, the Scepter of Humanity.

The march of the dead continued, and in a month, western Alannis was overrun. Ouray the Lizardman commanded the last Army of the Living, and performed with great efficiency and might. The spread of the dead was slowed too by the Ring as it had been by the Wailing Bridge earlier. But the end was ordained and known to all; the only striving remaining to see how long the end could be prevented.

At last, at last! The Archon appeared to Ouray. Wearing the Crown.

"My preparations are complete", he is said to have spoken, "and my atonement is at hand. There are Men, across Alannis and the Mainlands and even the Waste, that yet remain alive. They are few and scattered and will need your help, and the help of all, in the coming months and years. Do not fail them as I did." The Archon would answer no questions, nor elaborate on what he had already said. "You have been the truest of all, Ouray, but I have no reward for you. I believe that your life has been some reward itself, for all know of your steadfastness, and songs will be sung about you as long as Man exists. And I have always treasured your friendship above all others."

"Good luck, and farewell. Perhaps we will meet again in some other time or place"

There are three main theories as to what happened next. The most prevalent is that the Will of Dunamis was at work again, this time in a new Aspect some call Icebringer, and embodied itself in the Archon. Others suspect that the Archon figured a way to unleash the full power of the Crown in one single, gargantuan act. Others, particularly the Archon's cultists, believe that the Archon figured out how to fuse himself with the Darkon, and the fused being was more powerful than either had been individually, and that in a prime act of attrition channeled all that power at once to save us all.

No one will ever know of course, for no one was with the Archon and it is believed that his actions killed him.

What is certain is his action. There is a large mountain along the southern edge of Alannis, or rather there was, used as a landmark by sailors and named the Polespar Peak. Somehow, the Archon removed the mountain, the entire mountain, and much of the ground under it, and transported the entirety over the Hellsmouth chasm, sealing it utterly. The impact sent shockwaves for miles, some say they could be felt as far as Arboria, and threw up a titanic plume of dust and ash that filled the sky.

All across Erth, the dead, suddenly cut off from their negative energy source, fell to the ground and rotted.

And so began the Age of Winter, for the plume of ash lasted for many weeks, and covered the Erth. And the sun could not penetrate the shield of dust that filled the skies, and it grew colder and colder. The ice packs from the Northern Iceland began a rapid march to the south, as sure and steady and unstoppable an enemy as the dead had been, even if somewhat less lethal.

Man emerged again from his many hiding places to find Winter in full bloom although the season was Summer. And there was no harvest that year, nor the year after. And there was famine and starvation.

But Ouray the Diamondback Lizardman gathered his people, and the people of Alannis, which is to say all peoples for Alannis was now home to all and no longer home to only Humanity, and all of the supplies that could be acquired, and went on another Campaign, but this time his weapon was food and goodwill. He traveled Alannis and the Mainlands, and even a small distance into the Waste, and helped many Men survive the initial winters and prepare for the cold that had settled in and showed no sign of leaving.

But still the Ice came, and after thirty years, covered all but occasional oasis of warmth maintained by hot spring or quirk of nature or magics. And the Mudmen and Yetis and White Dragons and other creatures of Winter flourished. And again, Man struggled to survive, and became scattered, and forgot many of the old grudges in the daily effort to live on, and in this fashion, obtained peace.

As all of you know, the Age of Winter is only now coming to an end. Southern Alannis become entirely free of the ice only two decades ago, and though there are short bursts of Summer, the northern reaches remain largely in the grip of Winter.

A few brave souls have tried the Ring crossing, but at it's upper reaches it remains unpassable. Most of the major cities are uncovered again, but were devastated by the glaciers and will need decades to rebuild. A few of the southern cities are booming though, for instance Pendor by the Endless Swamp, and Chaldee and Goings along the coast.

I wonder what Age we are starting now?