Private Tales They Gave to the Sky

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Malachi

Malachi

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Before, there was no time, no earth, no dust, nothing. All was forgotten.
And what was falsity became a verity...
​

A long time ago, in the ages of Monsters and men, our lands were set upon a curse. People knew no happiness. They had tears where their eyes should have been. They had fear where their hearts should have been. They had death where the sky should have been -- and they gave to the sky what was most precious to them.

Twenty years. The ritual took form every twenty years. When the nights were the longest and twilight painted the sky. It was a ritual that had been passed down the generations, the truth of its origin lost. Some say the Land Wights that claimed this land were at the root of the cause. Others claim a darker source, the fault of a King who sold his soul for prosperity and wealth at the price of innocent blood.

There are many stories, each holding a fragment of truth. Of a ritual. Of a sacrifice. Of betrayal.
 
Eretejva is perhaps one of the most hostile regions of Epressa, a feat not easily achieved in the company of the Blightlands or Ixchel wilds. Much of this is due to the arctic temperatures that reign over the large island all year long. Even the hottest summers are barely enough to thaw the surface frost, and winters best not be mentioned at all.

It is one of the most isolated regions of Arethil, but in ages past, either due to the wrath of storms or the providence of the Gods, the icy, black sands of the western shores of Eretejva sank under the presence of the First Men.

Here they found themselves lost, with precious little resources and the bite of winter that would sink its teeth like ice daggers through heavy fur coats. They'd come as outcasts. As refugees. As men seeking to claim a portion of land that they could call their own, unknowing that it already belonged to ancient creatures a millennia ago.
 
When the First Men came to Eretejva, they brought with them their gods and their understanding of the world. As such, when they chanced upon the ancient creatures, they gave them a name they knew. The old ones call them the Landvættir, the Land Wights of Eretejva, the Spirits of the land.

It is said that the weal of the land and those who dwell within it depends on the might and the happiness of the land-wights; if they are frightened or angered, the land will not thrive and the humans who live upon it will fare ill in all things. They control the safety and fertility of Eretejva, offering blessings of prosperity. Blessings, that could very well become a curse.

Thus the friendship of a landwight is a useful thing to have; it brought prosperity and luck, even those which would seem to fall outside of these wight's normal realms of nature and fruitfulness of the earth. It is said that they could even whisper murmurs of what is to come and the best time to take action.

For Eretejva, the Landvættir are the Mountain Giant of the North, the Griffen of the East, the Bear of the South, and the Dragon of the West.
 
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It is said that to meet with the Landvættir, that one must find a boulder or go to a waterfall or the peak of a hill. There they must take some food and drink; hallow it to them, partaking in the meal and leaving some; then tell the Landvættir who you are and what you want.


Extreme caution is advised, remember that politeness is the most important thing in dealing with such wights; they are not like the demons of ceremonial magic and ritual, who can (and must!) be dominated and harshly commanded in specific detail, but rather the Landvættir are free beings who have no reason to wish you ill – or even to deny their help to you – unless you manage to personally offend them…


As the Lord of the First Men at the village of Vesturfjord did.
 
The First Men of Vesturfjord descended from the shipfaring lands of the west. They were a seafaring people, set to find lands to claim for their own. Some say it was due to a desire to leave behind a desolate place, perhaps the Blighted Lands and Sea. What destruction war and battle wrought left the land a wasteland.


Others claim a far different purpose to their voyage, claiming that a raiding ship had castaway on the Eastern shores of the Eretejva Tundra. Their ships laden with the bounty of captured slaves - women, men and children. All from different lands and cultures, now bound and isolated in the frigid, almost inhospitable black sand shores.


Whatever it may be, from these First Men came the construction of Vesterfjord, set between the crux of a large strait. How could they survive in such a place? With little resources and with the icy bite of winter upon them, from where could they draw a semblance of hope?


As they cast eyes to the sky and offered tribute of food to the Spirits and Gods of their homeland, a dark shadow would bring an answer… with a terrible price.
 
They say that Aron Jokullson was a tall and proud man. While he was not a man full of fortune, he was one of ambition and means. What manner brought him the title of the Lord of Vesturfjord is lost through the ages, but they say it was through his intervention that allowed the men and womenfolk of the settlement to survive.

The elders say it was he who first met those who inhabit the isle of Drakiall. An expedition searching for resources is said to have brought him past the strait and out near the open sea. Along a series of dangerous cliffs and distant islets, dark moving shadows flew throughout the rolling clouds of a distant storm. Majestic creatures, with wings so wide it could span the length of a ship. There they flew over the ocean and across the cliffs, terrifying as they would fill the First Men with awe; Dragons.

For sure these were the protective spirits of these lands, one would cry. We must pay tribute and ask for their mercy and blessings, surely another claimed. These were a people who grew up on the stories of the Landvættir in their homelands. Surely these were the same?

Falling upon his knees, Aron Jokuillson took from his pouch what he could offer of the meager jerky he had left. There, upon a boulder, in sight of the terrifying sight of what creatures flew overhead, Aron gave the food as a tribute.

Some say, perhaps, this was but the first of many decisions the prosperity of the village of Vesturfjord as well as its curse.
 
Tales of such creatures named Dragons span across the ages from the western coasts of Liadain across the lands and seas to the far east of Espressa. Some say it is a serpent-like creature of legends past. Folklore about dragons across Arethil vary drastically by region, but they have been depicted as winged, horned, four-legged, and capable of breathing fire to wingless, four-legged, serpentine creatures.

Some say they resemble giant snakes. Others believe they can soar to great heights, channeling the very primal sources of the magic of the Sun, the Moon, the Sky, the Ocean, the Earth, and the Stars. Be it the fiery breath of the Sun to the thunderous power of a storm, Dragons are said to be powerful conduits of magic, perhaps, even created by the primal elements themselves as their physical manifestations. It is said that a fully grown dragon possesses great strength, understand many tongues, keen intelligence, and long-lived. The validity of such claims has never been determined by the First Men, for interactions with dragons had been few and far between, tales spoken over an open fire underneath a starry sky.

Whatever and wherever the truth of their origins may reside, it is said that the creatures that the First Men came upon were of a similar description as told by their forefathers. Although there were a few discrepancies, the Dragons of Drakiall had wide wings they could use as extensions of arms themselves. While large, they were not massive beasts, but slender in form to provide a deftness of flight within the air. They could grow as large as a ship, with dark scales that lined the entirety of their bodies. To the casual observer, they would certainly bright forth a measure of awe and trepidation. All the more so when standing before one.
 
Whatever these creatures were in truth, they say that Aron Jokullson's offering brought forth the clap of thunderous wings and the darkening of the sky. The rays of the sun could not be seen and from the depths of that toothy maw came the rumbling inquiry of the Landvættir of the East.

"What is it that you seek, Aron Jokullson?"

Of course, the creature would know the Lord's name. What else to expect from a creature created from a primal source of magic. Surely this Dragon had the ability to glean this much from Aron Jokullson?

Head bowed, Aron Jokullson made his plea.

"We humbly ask for your blessing, Landvættir, so that my people may survive the winter and prosper in your lands."

It was a humble plea, requesting what any fine leader would ask for their people. For their survival. Prostrated at the Dragon's clawed feet, Aron Jokullson awaited a reply, feeling his heart thunder in his chest and hammer in his ears.

"You may have your blessings." came the rumbling the reply. Aron Jokullson felt his head fall forward in gratitude, but it was far too soon for him to be so thankful at his good fortune.

"You will find sustenance, prosperity, and influence for your people." the Dragon continued, and Aron Jokullson felt the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck rise.

"In turn, you must provide me a bride. Bring me your daughter in ten years time."
 
Now Aron Jokullson had no daughter, much less a wife. In his mind, it was an easy agreement to adhere to. It was perhaps, foolishness to believe that ten years of prosperity was well worth worrying later about how to provide a bride to the Landvættir. So Aron Jokullson agreed to this contract, swearing a binding vow to the Dragon in turn.

The Dragon then commanded Jokullson to extend his hand. Palm extended, a single claw raked across the Lord of the First Men's flesh, drawing forth a crimson line of blood. There the beads fell to the obsidian sand below, where they were soon joined by the blood of the Dragon as well. He had also used his claw to slash a small wound against the tip of his wing, where the dark oozing blood came dribbling down to hiss at it hit the floor.

They say that Landvættir extended that wing for Jokullson to clasp within his own, a powerful current of energy seemed to spread from the creature to Aron himself and the very ground he stood. For with the prosperity, he would gain, so would he be touched by the magic of the Dragon itself.

The Landvættir had given Aron Jokullson the gift of magic, birthing within him the ability to take action of his own volition and use it to bring prosperity to the people of Vesterfjord.
 
Aron Jokullson was not one to waste the Landvættir's gift. Within a few weeks, the Lord of Vesterfjord managed to use his recently acquired gifts to assist in the expansion of Vesterfjord. Through his magical abilities, not only were they able to find appropriate lands to farm, but also encourage the growth and sustainable use of local resources. Their first year there would be bitter and cold, but they would survive it.

As the years passed, the village would grow. Just as the Landvættir had promised, Aron Jokullson had become a pillar of influence within the community. With this came the necessity to ensure his legacy. He took to wife Gudrun Tinna Oaterdottir, and as the seed was strong, it took root within her womb.

On the summer solstice, Aron Jokullson's welcomed his firstborn.

A daughter.
 
Svanhildur Arondottier was born under the sunny skies of the Summer Solstice. True to her birthright, Svanhildur was both radiant in disposition as she was fair in countenance. Her hair was said to be as golden as the finest gossamer, her eyes as bright and vibrant as the Northern Lights, and with skin as white as snow.

While she might not have been the son that Aron Jokullsson would have desired, Svanhildur quickly became the apple of his eye. She brought cheer to his longhouse that could melt even the frostiest of expressions, and with every year that passed, Aron Jokullsson would be reminded of that distant covenant he had made upon the shores of the Drakiall cliffs. He had promised his daughter to the Landvættir. With less than a handful of years left before the score would be up and the increasing pressure of the severity of the tribute he would have to produce, Aron Jokullsson would commence the devising of a plan. One that perhaps could save his daughter's life.
 
By now, the Lord of the First Men of Vesterfjord had well become accustomed to the use of magic that had been gifted to him by the Landvættir. Surely there was a way he could use what he had learned to his benefit? It was an arrogance that he would pay greatly.

Orders were carried out for the exploration and inquest on any and all magical lore and knowledge that could be found that perhaps could be used before the decade was up. From within the village, hope seemed to appear in an elderly slave captured from a raid long ago.

Her name was Njeri of Tsavas, a small village along the shores of the Blightlands. She was known to be a healer of sorts, forced to assist with the ailments of the people of Vesterfjord. When Aron Jokullsson's inquiry on methods that could be used to perhaps save his daughter, Njeri of Tsavas appeared before the Lord of the First Men.

She said there were ways to bind such creatures as the Landvættir so as to make them vulnerable and harmless. What she spoke about was binding magic, cast in blood and drawn to summon a particular outcome. For sure there would be a way where the Dragon would be kept bound and Aron would keep his daughter. All that it would take would be a simple sacrifice; the hand from which the original blood pact with the Landvættir had been made.
 
By all accounts, it would be a simple exchange. One blood price for another. Yet from this hand which had the scar left upon his palm the oath he had sworn years past had come to a wealth of power through the manipulation of magic bestowed upon him. Was he to sacrifice it for a chance at keeping his daughter mean that the magic would be lost to him? Would he bring destruction to his village then?

The old woman assured him that there were ways. That it would not only bind the Dragon but also ensure that his legacy will endure.

In this, Njeri of Tsavas spoke the truth. The binding spell would summon a dark magic, unlike Aron Jokullsson, had ever seen. It would bind the dragon, but also ensure Jokullsson's legacy be wrought in blood.
 
They say that Svanhidur was neigh at her sixteenth year when the time came for her father do deliver her to the Landvaettir. Njeri of Tsavas told the Lord that all must go as planned until the very last moment. So Svanhidur was shrouded in white, decked in her finest jewelry and decorations. She drank the wine and her lips were stained red with winterberry.

A bridal song would fill the air, the villagers playing flutes and beating the drums. They were well aware of what the Lord of Vesterfjord had promised for their fortune. How generous his Lord is. Of course, honor demanded that Aron Jokullsson would provide a bride to the Dragon. After all, the village of Vesterfjord had flourished as was promised by the Dragon. Crops and game were plentiful even as far North in the tundra. The seamen were able to carve a life here. They managed to conquer this land and make it their own -- but it was never without a price.

The Dark Magic whispered by Njeri of Tsavas spoke of using blood magic for this dark ritual. The Lord of the First Men thus gave up his hand, using flesh and blood for the healer to draw upon the ground sigils of power. Dragon blood had tied the bond together and through its remnants so would it fuel the ritual therein. Chants drowned out the night and by then, Njeri's song filled the air.

But it was not to the conclusion Aron of Jokullsson desired.
 
What happened next will be VesterFjord's curse.

For Aron Of Jokullsson had, in turn, betrayed the Landvaettir who had granted him the gift of magic.

In his rage, the Landvaettier would turn his focus upon the village, set to destroy it for their betrayal. Aware of the approaching doom, Svanhidur fought with her father, attempting to quell the Dragon's wrath by committing to the original pact. By then it was too late, the Dragon came, beckoned by Njeri's song, unable to ignore its lure and desperate to claim what he had been promised long ago.

For instead of a bride, the Lord of the First Men had instead bound the Dragon with a curse through blood magic, enforcing a dark ritual that would afflict the Landvaettir's lineage. It was a primitive magic, one that had locked the Landvaettir within its grasp, binding him and his kind.

For this betrayal, they are bound to give what is most precious to the sky, to those born of ashes, and summoned anew.

Twenty years. Thus this ritual takes form every twenty years. When the nights were the longest and twilight painted the sky. Herein lies the ritual. A bride clad in white, with crimson winter berries at her feet, with lips stained red as if coated in blood. Here, at Vesterfjord, they pay the price Aron of Jokullson had damned with his pride and his betrayal.



Before, there was no time, no earth, no dust, nothing. All was forgotten.

What was falsity became a verity. The river has frozen into nothingness.

Time is a fast flowing river, It spares no one. The bride awaits her bridegroom as she waits for her destiny.

She is clad in white as if dressed in a shroud. Eternal peace will come for her. The wedding bell tolls.

Take her away, Take her away. Come! Come for her! The young maiden is yours for eternity.
​
 
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