LOREBOOK: O Speur Mhòr!

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O Speur Mhòr! (Oh Great Sky!)
Originally written by Scribe Beavis the Younger, 3 AMS
Translated from Old Low Midlandish by Followers of Apocalypse, 4109 AMS
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So few do live who have seen what I have, and none but me shall speak of it. To exist in these times is a privilege all embrace, yet it is what comes before that cannot be forgotten. To our children we tell tales of a new age, but from them we hide the truth of the old. Is it out of fear? My hands do shake as I commit these words to paper, though I hope my lords shall protect me, and know that I seek only to spread their light and mercy to those unaware. This tale is a warning, reader! For what came before could one day come again!
As a child, the father of my father would tell me of his youth. Together, he would speak of a time when the sky was bright, when colors would dance across it before the light vanished over the sea. He spoke of elegant gold, bright, crimson hues, and cool, peaceful blues painting the ceiling above the land. He spoke of nights, cool and tranquil, where uncountable motes of light formed great beasts and noble warriors in the heavens above. He spoke of many things in those days, of dancing, of feasts, of tranquility, but my mind was forever drawn to the fantastical image of a sky that appeared anything but empty, and barren. 
Under the unlit, murky haze of my sky did I live my life. As I slept I would dream not of heroes but of monsters, of horrific abominations that crept through darkened hallways and silent city streets. Many days I did wake to the tortured screams of a lost soul, of a traveler or vagabond who had not been able to seek shelter in time, and who the ceaseless, oppressive overcast had claimed for himself. My knuckles would turn white as I grasped my blanket in apprehension, terrified that, when my time came, my screams would sound just as pained. I did not cry, for such weakness would have alerted the horrors outside to my existence. I did not cry when my father was taken, nor when my grandfather was as well. On the day my sister and I were set to leave my home and find work in another land, only a single tear escaped down my cheek when I discovered the mangled remains of my mother in the cellar.
I worked tirelessly as a scribe for A’tòiseachadh, never leaving the shelter of our noble town's walls. From within my study I could gaze over the ramparts and into the frigid ocean, the briny smell of the sea wafting up from the cliffs below. Crashing waves against the rocks drowned out the screams from outside our gate, though the occasional sound of a body dashing itself against the rocky maw of Neptune carried itself to me on the wind, so still I did not sleep. Still, I did my duty, and as streaks the color of the fog above began to form in my hair, I prayed that I would live long enough to die in peace. 
It was two days before the miracle that it came to our town. On a pale horse it rode, clad in the cloak of a nobleman. Only a fool would have mistaken it for one, however, as when it drew back it's hood the gathered crowd wailed in fear at it's skeletal visage. It was then it spoke, and in it's low, rumbling voice it told us that salvation was at hand. To bated breath and chattering teeth, the messenger performed a strange sermon, assuring us that a Fifth Age was nigh, and that soon our suffering would cease. "But to survive the dawning of this age", it said, "You must leave this place, for soon They shall be here, and only They can bring an end to the terror of my kin." As soon as it said this, thunder boomed from across the plain, and for a moment I swore I saw the shadow of some vast being projected against the sky. When I turned back to face our visitor, I found hollow eye sockets peering deep into my soul. 
"You must stay." It said, as I stumbled back in fear. "You must witness this." It said again, and I scrambled to lift myself from the cobblestone. Stumbling over my words, I tried to ask what it meant, or why I could not simply escape before "They" arrived. With only a demented, glistening smile, the being turned and remounted it's horse, the trot of it's hooves echoing across the silent, shadowed town. 
The stillness did not last, however, and without another word to me, the crowd returned to their lodgings and began to pack. Panic overtook me, and I rushed back to my study. Surely, this angel of death was nothing more than a twisted jester, some lesser monster that delighted in watching us lower beings squirm. Perhaps it's warning was nothing more than an attempt to trick us into abandoning the safety of our walls, I told myself, but deep down I knew that I had been chosen to die. 
As morning began, and the sky shifted from pitch stygian blackness to a murky grey, the town emptied itself onto the streets. I tried to warn them, to tell them that it was not safe outside, but not a single one even turned to look at me. In carts, on foot, and on horseback the town dispersed into the grassy plains around us, and with the ocean wind at my back, I watched their lights fade into the distance. One man remained in A’tòiseachadh, a stout, older gentleman with rosy cheeks and friendly eyes. I saw him from my balcony as he waved, smiled, and threw himself into the rocks below. 
The wind howled that night as I lay shivering in my cot. To stay in the village was suicide, I knew, but to leave was to expose oneself to the ravenous beasts lurking outside, perhaps even to the Mad King and his twisted court! I resolved that, for better or for worse, I had to stay and commit my experience to paper. As I drifted off into a cold, damp sleep, I noticed that, for the first time in my life, there were no screams or roars to be heard.
At the crack of what I believed to be dawn, I was awoken by a slow, steady pulse in the ground beneath me. In an instant I threw on my robe, grabbed my parchment and quill, and rushed to my window. At first I thought it was the morning mist, still clinging to the marshy grass, but as it grew closer, my eyes began to widen. Two riders, a man and a woman, fled from the west. Their gleaming blades and dirtied armor marked them as knights, though their allegiance was hard to ascertain. If they were servants of the Mad King, then they were renegades, as their pursuers, with their grotesque mounts and inhuman shrieks, were clearly loyal to the throne. 
Another set of rumbles drew my attention away from this chase, and I turned behind me to look at the sea. There, the waves rose and fell quite rapidly, as if in sync with the breathing of a wounded animal. The wind whipped by my face is it had before, though this time it lacked it's salty flavor. Instead, it was as if the air was mixed with honey, or even fruit, though this taste was far sweeter than any fruit I had ever eaten. As the shaking increased, I saw the water begin to part, forming a slope down to the swirling depths of the sea floor. There, They emerged. 
At first I thought they might have been men, though what men could live at the bottom of the sea? No, it was their skin that set them apart as something else entirely. It was as if each one was a shining gemstone, the kind a royal might wear around his neck. In front stood what appeared to be a woman who shone a deep purple, and around her head wore a long, flowing scarf. On either side of her stood others, similar in appearance yet unique in their glittering pigment. One being of pure silver stood close, his muscles that of a strongman, or laborer. Their faces... how to describe them? They were... flat, emotionless, and as smooth as a knight's helmet, or a player's mask. Yet when I saw them, I did not feel fear, for their eyes glowed with the sort of grim determination and intelligence I had only ever seen in my fellow man.
From the west, the thundering footsteps of a thousand horses informed me that the unholy army had almost arrived. Forcing myself to look away from the majestic gem people, I sprinted out from my room and down the wall, hoping to make it to the relative safety of the town dungeon before this invading army crashed against the wall. It was then, with horror, I noticed my stupidity; the gate had been left open! As the guards had abandoned their posts, they must not have bothered to seal the town behind them, and I, in my cowardly panic of the previous night, hadn't even taken a moment to check! There was no time now; I threw myself onto the mossy prison floor right as the two renegade knights passed through the gate, and sealed the barred iron door behind me.
In the darkness of my cell I curled into a ball and wept. Outside, I heard the knights call to each other, preparing to do battle against the Mad King's horde. As their roars reached the gates, I covered my ears and shut my eyes, hoping that, whatever form it would take, my death would at least be fast. For several minutes I sobbed, my tears soaking my robe and staining my parchment, which was otherwise empty. The ground buckled back and forth beneath me, and chunks of dirt and stone from the ceiling rained down. In the pit of my stomach, another feeling emerged, and it felt as if I was plummeting down the same cliff the old man had. Even through my covered ears I heard the muffled screams of death and terror, but the loudest sound of all must have been my wails of despair. 
Yet suddenly, there was silence. Unnatural, impossible silence, as though the whole world, like me, was holding it's breath. Then, loud as thunder, They spoke.
"Do not be reconciled with wisdom, justice, and love."
Opening my eyes, I looked up just in time to see a blinding glow bleed through the thick bars of my door. With a crash, my cell exploded into rubble, and I was thrown back against the wall, my right arm making an unpleasant snapping sound as I landed. As I pushed aside the remains of my makeshift sanctuary and stared out to the town center, my mouth fell open in a primal concoction of horror, confusion, and awe.
A’tòiseachadh was not but a playground for the gods. The hideous corpses of the perusing army littered the town square, while the two knights stood in the center, a whirlwind of destruction. Leaping out from alleyways and rooftops, the attacking creatures were cut down in an instant, yowling as they collapsed into a bloody mess. The knights fought without fear, spinning and leaping over their foes in an elegant dance. Surely, they could not have been mortals? And yet their visible perspiration, the occasional moment taken to catch their breath, the subtle gasps as they dodged blows, all proved to me that, somehow, these people were mortals. 
Above them floated... oh, it was impossible, and yet there they were! The Mad King himself, and his court, leering from high above like some twisted audience. A smirk formed on the King's face as the last of his warriors fell, and he pointed at the knights. From his side his siblings flew, laughing as their horrific, misshapen forms landed in front of the knights. I wanted to cry out, to warn them, but I did not have to; a beam of pure light came from behind me, and with a look of genuine terror on it's face, one of the apostles burned away into dust.
The Mad King stopped smiling, and lurched downwards just in time to dodge another beam of light. I was speechless. I had never seen these creatures know fear, these monsters that, for as long as I had lived, had hunted us and tortured us as part of some sick game only they understood. I used to pray for survival, or a painless death. Now, I stood upright, motionless and dumbstruck, as my nightmares withered away around me.
I did not cheer when the final monsters died, nor did I have anything to say as I watched the Mad King fall to the ground, cut in twain by the larger of the two knights. His face was frozen in an expression of confusion. As the sounds of conflict began to fade, and the dying moans were drowned out by a cool, calming breeze, I finally forced my body to move again, and I turned around. There, on the ruins of the wall, stood the gem beings. There were more now, almost a hundred glistening, stoic individuals, their skin together more colorful than anything I had ever seen. It was as if my Grandfather's stories of rainbows and sunsets had been given form. Several went over to speak with the Knights, but I did not hear them. The rest began to disperse, walking back over the wall and into the sea. I tried to walk after them, but my legs gave way, and I fell into the rubble. It was then I heard a voice, monotone and calm, yet at the same time smooth, and reassuring. 
"You are safe now."
I looked up to see the being with purple skin, the woman that seemed to be their leader. Her face was like a mask, yet her eyes were caring, and friendly. Somehow... she smiled at me, though to this day I cannot describe how I know that was what she did. My voice still gone, and my limbs still jelly, I sat and watched as this strange savior of mine turned away and walked into the distance.
It was then that it happened. Above me, I saw the whites and grey begin to fade, and a small orange flash arc through the heavens. At first, I did not register what was happening, but as the shadowed clouds gave way to a blue light, I saw the Sun rise above the ocean. Its simple, golden light warmed my skin, and for the second time in my life, I began to cry.
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 TRANSLATOR'S NOTE:
As a child in Tarn, I read New Eden's early readers version of O Speur Mhor, and was captivated by what I thought was simply a fairy tale. As I have grown older, however, certain events in my life have led me to revisit this work. I translated this version of "Oh Great Sky" myself, making sure to stay as close to the original as possible. There are many components to this story that were left out of the edition I first read, most notably including the herald's monstrous appearance, and the numeration of the "ages." Another detail left out is the "Orange Flash" seen before the sunrise, and the falling sensation described while Beavis hid himself - what could that be referring to? 
As for the historical accuracy of this story, it's hard to be sure. The "Mad King" of the story is certainly King Griffith the Mad, whose reign as leader of what would eventually become Zombingerend was infamous for it's brutality. However, no source exists regarding his "monstrous apostles", save for some local legends. The identity of the two knights who killed him is easier to pin down: Lord Guts and Lady Casca are well known historical figures even here in New Eden, and I was privileged enough to visit their tombs last month during an overseas expedition. Beavis the Younger certainly exists, and while he did not have any children himself, his sister would immigrate to Gruganda during the early 5th Age, and her descendants, the Gregigans, need no introduction.
On the topic of the 5th Age, however, is the identity of the "mysterious saviors." I asked Orangeado about the end of the 4th age, and while he explained that he was not present for the event itself, he did refer me to texts by Gongo Oberstein, namely regarding the mysterious "Saphireado." 
Did Beavis experience the end of the 4th Age? It seems so, but does that mean that King Griffith and his "monsters" were the 4th Agers? What about the so-called "angel of death" who warns the townspeople? And what does this imply about the 6th Age? Will these beings be friend, or foe?
- Dendy Speedwagon, 4109 AMS
Category:Last King of New Eden
Category:Lorebooks