In the Hall of Heroes, the immortal scribes gather to compile the histories of Ithia. High Scribe Vincent Groth stalked through the safety lamp lit gloom surrounded by shelves that towered into darkness above. Occasionally giant pillars of salt stood marked in arcana that helped draw in moisture keeping the air dry. Books, scrolls, slabs of stone and wax weighed heavily on thick shelves of wood. Many higher up books were bound in copper chains and locked to rails of copper that ran along the shelves and down the sides to ground latent magic. Groth took long strides to where the aisle led to a large clearing where rows of desks sat and Scribes sat working or congregated in small groups. A raised dais sat on one corner with three raised desks sat watch over the others.  

Groth caught the scent of sweet cherries and vanilla and turned. “Good morning Ze.” He bowed to what looked to be a young woman with sharp thin features, long pointed ears, black hair streaked with pink, and eyes like endless pools of cherry blossoms churning in a whirlpool. She wore the robes of a Researcher in brown stripped with blue with a single large pocket on the front; a golden scroll pin marked her as the Head of the Department. She carried a tray of steaming mugs and proffered it.  

“Good morning, Vincent. Did the meeting go well?” She turned the tray to present a small cup made to look like an oversized ink pot, a handle like a taper candle. “Black Tea, cherry juice, one sugar, and a touch of vanilla.” 

“Yes, though Master Weatherward remained behind with Master Hybori and you know Lionguard can’t pass the entrance desk without a chat and smoke with Colhan. Ah, perfection.” He said taking the mug and blowing on the steaming surface.  

“Of course.” She shifted her tray to one hand and produced a wrapped package and several letters. “Here I acquired an original slate of the Fall of Ebon.” 

“Oh my.” He carefully placed his tea down on the nearest desk of an under scribe and took the package with utmost care. “I knew I can always count on your abilities.” He slowly peeled away the top of the paper to peek inside. “Wax is whole and undamaged.” 

“I do seem to have earned my position.” She said booping him on the nose. “I am very good at what I do.”  

“I do apologize for cutting this short but…” He gave a deep bow in parting. 

“You got a new tidbit to read. I understand.” Ze waved him to carry on and returned to handing out tea. “You’re forgetting your tea.” She said as he hurried off only to retreat and reclaim his mug.  

“Thank you.” He returned to his desk on the raised dais to the left of Witherward’s. Sipping his tea putting it to the side he spoke several words of power to protect his new specimen from dust and grime before slowly removing it from the wrappings. He waved one hand over the wax coated top feeling the weight of the past radiating off its surface. The scents of torn wet earth, blood, the screams of dying men, the calls of carrion birds, he removed his hand and looked over the words scribed into the wax atop the slate and taking up his trusted quill he started to write occasionally summoning one of his under scribes to bring him other works as he pieced together the various points of views trying to put together the past as accurately as possible.  

“It’s almost like I earned my spot.” She grinned and continued her way. 

Groth hurried to his desk pulled on his gloves took a deep breath of the air kept dry by the giant dehumidifiers and finished removing the packaging. He looked the runes over placing it on a wedge of wood to prop it up and started off by taking notes on a scroll. He spoke the words to himself as he wrote. “Original Ebonessi is highly different from modern Evari. Still somewhat legible.” He dug around his desk taking out a journal on his translation efforts of the old Ebonessi to Evari. Drew a fresh journal from beneath and started to translate savoring every word he finished. “Starts at the end of a war with Sterrenstad.” The ink bled from his quill and in the darkness the histories took form. 

A world formed from words, by belief, by action.  

The King of Ebon, Trei bore his crowned of silver and polished brass as laurel leaves around a helmet with a horsehair plume. He strode through the field of broken bodies having left the King of Sterrenstad for the Blackclad and crows. He heard her before he saw her the clopping of hooves as the centaurish Goddess descended clapping two coconuts together as she galloped through the sky. Bags saddled across her back and a messenger bag over one shoulder. Carabella Messenger of the Gods her wings sporting tiny wings that carried her through the sky came to a halt before the King of Ebon. 

“Behold!” She shouted and slipping her coconuts into her side bags drew a small trumpet giving a fanfare for her arrival. “Tis I, Word of the Gods. I come to announce the arrival of his Dark Divinity Zatolen.”  

“Hello Cara… must I speak with him?” 

“Mm, yes. Well, at least he’ll be talking at you. I guess you don’t have to respond. You don’t happen to have any sugar cubes on you?” 

“No.” 

“Salt?” 

“No.” 

“Hmm… Hay and or Oats?” 

“Cara, battlefield.” 

“Darn. Oh well, here he comes.”  Carabella gave another little fanfare before galloping off. The pale skinned god in black and scarlet appearing from behind her.  

“Evening Trei.” Zatolen approached. “Having a good day I see.” 

“I won the battle.” 

“Good. I bring ill fortune; fate has conspired to bring upon thee woe.”  

“Save it Zatolen.” 

“The king had a son, a babe, still swaddled in the palace. If allowed to grow up he shall rise to take all that you love away from you.” 

Trei frowned. “You wish me to slay a babe?” 

“No, I wish to give you a choice that fate would deny you.”  

“Not much of a choice face ruin or murder a child.” 

“It isn’t.” 

Trei started towards the burning city-state and to the dark, by contrast, palace. He snapped orders to his mean to help extinguish the fires before the whole city was destroyed. And he found himself before the cradle mother pale and still in the bed beside the blood soaking the sheets a sign of how new the babe must be. He looked at the squalling child cleaned and swaddled before abandoned to his crib. “Kill this. Take away a life with so much potential. I defy fate. I will take him.” He lean down and with great care lifted the babe up and pressed him to his chest.  

“He will be your ruin.” 

“To kill him would be a more terrible and complete ruin. No, I shall raise him show him a better way.” 

“It won’t matter, nothing you do shall change his path.  

“I forge my own path. Begone fell one. I walk own way.” Trei carried the child to the city state of Ebon so he might breathe air untainted by smoke, blood, and death. He took him as his own child.