The Primordial Record

The fog had thinned to nothingness, and Rowan was surprised that daybreak had arrived. It did not seem so long ago when the sun rose yesterday, a full day had been consumed by the chaos and despair.

He had experienced so much, yet he could close his eyes… and easily remember when he was a miner digging through the earth or he when he was a frail Noble brat, who buried his head in books and dreams. Now in less than a week. He had become something different.

In less than a week, he had seen death and suffering far more than he could have ever imagined. He had killed and killed. This should have been a terrible dream, but he was awake and aware of all of it. So, what does that make reality but a nightmare.

What would he have to become to survive this reality? What atrocities was he willing to commit? What sacrifices was he willing to make?

Again that words came forth, unbidden, from his mind, "I thought I was a man, but I am nothing but char and cinders."

. . ? ?

Rowan finally approached the heavy gates of his manor, it was a draw bridge which dropped over a small mot filled with Azythin, a nasty material that corrodes flesh and bones.

They arrive to the cheering and weeping of the manor’s staff, who saw the techniques Rowan had unleashed from a distance and heard the screams from the town. They had all shaken in fear.

The relief when they had felt seeing the arriving crowd was palpable, since most of them had families from the town, and they were distraught at the fate of their loved ones.

Rowan saw hopeful faces, that soon scrunched up in sorrow and disbelief at the sparse crowd behind him, he had done all he could, yet he still felt shame.

But he was amazed at the tenacity of these people. At the start of the day, this town was breathing and thriving. Well over three thousand people made this place home. Now what was left numbered no more than one hundred and twenty.

If Rowan did not fully understand the reality of this world. Now he did. Death came for all, but in this world, death was a malicious and relentless wave washing over the shore. The people were like loose sand, and with every wave, more of them were dragged to the cold darkness. Inevitable and unrelenting, it would never stop until it consumes all.

Then he saw something amazing that drove the darkness away from his thoughts. These people understood their helpless stance in this world, yet they kept on pushing for a better day, he had never seen strength like this.

Rowan saw them bracing themselves and picking their grief and placing them aside. Without the threat of immediate demise, they hugged their neighbors and comforted the children.

He saw Purdue the Dark Priest, his face drawn and tired. Yet, his voice of consolation and comfort was strong. Purdue caught his gaze and Rowan nodded at him, he returned the gesture.

He saw faces he knew from his memories, and those he knew from the souls he kept. In a manner, he knows everyone here deeply.

Rowan watches as a semblance of calm comes over the people. He watched the horror and the nightmare slowly pull away from their Visage.

But you only had to look beneath the surface, and you would catch a glimpse into eyes that held only pain but shielded by a strength borne from love. They did not complain over what was lost, but instead strove to protect what was left.

Seeing all these. Rowan wept. He was thankful for his shell, for he was sure his face presently would make babies cry. And in a weird way, tears were a form of release.

Why should he complain about the darkness and his loss? He was far more powerful than these people, but in their own way, they were all stronger than him, like an unyielding grass, they bend but they do not break and even if they are cut down and burnt, from the ashes they would make themselves new.

He had much to learn from them, for even in his plight, he still had much to give thanks for. Not only that, but he had already lost if he let despair win.

The butlers called to round up the people, for he was going to distribute them in the hall beside the manor, but Rowan stopped him.

He cleared his throat and addressed the gathered people, surprised at how effortlessly he switched to the role of prince, another stark reminder of how different he had become, not only his body had changed, his mind as well.

He was born to Nobility, and in this world that title meant something entirely different from the norm. It was not just a difference in social class or in the way of thinking. They could as well be a different species from the rest of humanity.

Rowan was not convinced that this made them better than regular humans, he could even argue that it worsened them in certain aspects. To him, sentience was a watershed. Any creature that had sentience had to be placed in the same category, and none was superior to the other.

So, even if he had the blood of gods running in his veins, he was not superior to humans, he was glad that the prince all through his life never drew himself away from humanity.

With that in mind, this world believed in might, and whoever had the bigger fist, would rule.

Although these sentiments were for good reasons. Gods and fantastical beings walked the land, and some of them were not virtuous. Many were downright evil, and humanity as a whole would suffer if it did not have capable leaders and guardians.

Rowan felt that Nobles began as that—Guardians. And as with all things that power touches, it tends to change and not always for the better. Nobles were no longer Guardians but became Rulers and Tyrant.

All his entire life he had been told that the blood of a Noble is more precious than the lives of ten thousand men.

The actions of these few here begged to differ.

The bravery and tenacity of these people was remarkable to him, and so he needed to give back to these people who had shown him a path from despair.

That was what he told them, as they all gathered before him in silence.

He could not promise them salvation, every path to that sweet release had been blocked, escape by land or water had been denied to them.

He was unable to promise them victory, for even he himself did not know the hour he would die, only that it was soon, and he feared he was not strong enough to face their foes…

Yet, he could tell them…

"When I was given the keys to these land to make it my own. I despaired. I questioned the decision of my family. Why should I leave the Magnificent Capital and go live at the end of nowhere? To live with people who have not seen a different scenery their entire life? What could they teach me? They had no grand tale or ballads. The gods had never deemed it fit to walk their land, or dine in their halls."

. , , .

"I said to my family: They had no sense of fashion. No reputable arts or craft, they were not even wealthy. The tax they paid… pittance."

. .

The crowd began to shift, yet the tone of Rowan’s voice held them, even the children went silent,

"Nevertheless I did come to your land, with hopes that I could see some redeeming quality. Something to stir my spirit."

!

"What I saw was worse. Your farmlands were more rock than land. You hunt for meat where Demons and Mutants rove. Your rains were storms, and your ports are never peaceful."

. .

"Yet, day after day, I watched you create miracles out of suffering. You broke the land. You tame your waters. Each one of you left me in awe. You made me aware that it was me who was unworthy of these lands and of its people, and ever since that moment, I had fought to gain her acceptance… And I have failed."

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