BOOK ON THE CALAMITOUS LORD OF STUPOR
COURTESY OF MASTER REGARYA
SCRIBED BY HIGH SCHOLARS OF THE LOST
All chapters, excluding the annotation of our Master Regarya, were written in an archaic script and language used by our ancestors during and after the Slaughtering of the Lost Temple—known also as the Massacre in the Fifty-first Domain—on the First Year of the Pantheonic Calendar known as the First Year of Alpha. These manuscripts were written roughly eleven million years ago within the Lost Temple or City of the Fifty-first Domain and were translated with the combined efforts and capabilities of the Academia in the Study of the History and Literature of the Lost.
CHAPTERS
REVELATION OF AGALAN I
"ILIAD IN THE FIRST YEAR OF ALPHA, SPRING"
REVELATION OF NIMUEL
"ILIAD IN THE FIRST YEAR OF ALPHA, SUMMER"
REVELATION OF AGALAN II
"ILIAD IN THE FIRST YEAR OF ALPHA, AUTUMN AND WINTER"
ANNOTATION OF REGARYA
"THE VANISHING OF THE GREYKING IN HISTORY"
REVELATION OF AGALAN II
Winter had blown that day a most unholy gale. Merely a few leagues away, the paleness that the clouds seem to epitomize as the encroaching figure of the unworthy approaches the shining walls of Hoofstad settles an uncanny feeling in the guts of fearing mortals. The heavy fog of the horizon envelops him as if he were a wraith, clinging to him like the miasma of corpse fluid. In his right hand was a shining silver shaped into a simple twain-bladed sword, dragging and dragging along the soil as it carves a path of infertility in its wake. If it were not for the banshee-like wailings that escape the otherwise clean shining blade, it would surely be mistaken for the common tool of infantry. Nevertheless, the maddening yet familiar voices that attempted to sober up from eldritch stupor had heralded his looming presence. And it was only growing louder.
I was kneeling before the altar of the Warrior, praying for his protection. I had fled from the unworthy by miracle in that village long desecrated. Beside me, and similarly, thousands hush in holy communion, clutching in their hands symbols of faith that they remain to stand by until the end. Alas, it made me realize how hollow my prayer was. I had lost my faith in gods as I had lost my feelings from bearing witness to such… scenes of terror I never thought possible. Certain am I that even if I had then praised the Warrior, the Saintess, and every god that ever existed and has yet to exist, there would have been no difference in the way that exact memory had occurred. No gods ever descended from their heavens. Nor did their chosen ones, their champions, which embody what they are supposed to realize in this plane of existence, ever intervene in the slaughter. Even now, there is no answer from the thousands that attempt to call even one of their blessed kind. What kind of reason do these deified beings say when they arrive late? Or when they had not noticed that one of their own, even though more putrid and filthy than the rest of them, had come to vanquish the holy city they call their council?
Outside, there was rumbling. The eerie crackle of thunder. The sharpness of ominous winds carving the yet godless city. There was fear, but the thousands believed in the holy impenetrability of the temple walls and gates. Their prayers grew louder, drowning out what the noises threatened towards their ephemerality.
There was a gentle tap on the glorious gates of the temple. It was faint, like the touch of an infant caressing the cheek of its mother. But it was there. It was silent at first. I was watching every person among the thousands kneeling and praying rise with confusion. The next moment, there was a hand… melting through like a hot knife on tallow. Then an arm… melting through. A visage… melting through like hot knife on tallow. A glimmer of silver melting through.
It felt like waiting for water to boil inside a kettle. The whistle in the wind grows louder. The air felt heavy on my shoulders. There was a momentary pause, calm before the storm. Familiar, I thought. It was familiar. Then I saw a silver shine and felt my cheek run hot crimson. Heads, turning to run almost, smoothly rise… and splatter on white marble. A hundred corpses before me. A hundred corpses before me not. There was a distinct perforation on the gate… and there was him. Towering, looking down as blood rains on him. There were no longer corpses… just a pool of red. All of them, the instant their heads so much as graze the marble floor, vanished. The only proof of such bodies ever existing were their cries being silenced by the silver thing that slithered like a snake with horse teeth, burping disgustingly as it crunched on bones and sinew. He was almost sad. Almost.
He swings his sword hand; another hundred rise and splatter and vanish. Then another, and another, and another… I felt shoulders bumping mine. I heard the cries of people, their once-hush footsteps in respect to the gods now sprinting in full. I felt an arm grab me. Then I ran as well. The same way I ran away from the village. The same way that memory occurred. I felt the slash of the wind, the feeling of lightness. The next moment I turned to look, my left arm was no longer there. He was walking towards the running herd. Walking towards me.
The dash to escape the temple was both excruciating and mind-numbing. The noises the people were making were that of sheep, crying and begging to their deities in futility and hopelessness. I found myself one of the few to leave the shining monolith with only the disappearance of a limb, let alone with my life. The city was painted with the red of common folk. I could not set sight upon a single corpse strewn here or there, their blood the sole evidence of massacre. Hoofstad was perfectly preserved in unholy disarray.
Presently, I find myself in some disheveled study. Ink and quill. I write at last these final words to whomever may discover the atrocities of the unworthy. However, I suppose the state with which he desecrated the city would hopefully be enough of an image of his blasphemy against whatever remains of any holy conduct. For he is no god.
ANNOTATION OF REGARYA
As of the Twenty-first Century, through the effort of our institution the Academia in the Study of the History and Literature of the Lost, there have been no other authenticated scriptures relating to the religious figure known as Y'liad Elyion. Aside from brief references of his actions in the Fifty-first Domain in other later literatures, he is completely vanished from the history of the Lost. What remains of him, his name, and legacy are bound alone within this book we compiled in hopes of spreading meaningful information about this realm's rich but convoluted history, especially within the Lost, to the public.
It is yet a matter of debate whether Y'liad Elyion was a real being of influence within Hoofstad's pantheon or merely a symbol weaponized against polytheistic religions of that era.