Tale of the Book

Entry from Sin’s journal

Copied from the tome of fate

Time cannot touch me. I am an entity that exists outside the flow of time and the passing of ages never left an impression on me.

The only change that could ever say to have touched me is that of the amount of dust covering me. The hall of learning once known as the hall of wisdom where I am kept now can be called the hall of dust, all of those prized manuscripts, scrolls and books all lost to the dust and fire with the passing of time.

I still remember the days when the halls of Irkia were guarded by the guardians of the lost age, an age of glory when all of the grey lands had been united under the true king, the king that was lost forever by the arrival of the stormsouls from the west. Now I wait for one or two heroes that appear in a century to pass through the doors of awakening into the hall of wisdom to open me to make their destiny. After all, I am also known as the Tome of fate.

Unlike the other books that existed and withered to dust in the hall, I can remember the very beginning of my birth. I wasn’t made by an expert maker. My maker was a rugged bookmaker from a small town to the south. The parchments were made from goatskin. The hide was first soaked in a lime solution to loosen the fur, which was then removed. It was then stretched and scraped using a knife with a curved blade. The skin was then dried and tension applied to it was adjusted to obtain credible shape. Then these processes were repeated until the skin became thin so that it could be used as paper and were then cut into the needed shapes.

Once the appropriate thickness was obtained the parchment sheets were folded into groups called gatherings. The gatherings were then sewn together onto leather thongs that served as support. When the sewing was finished the ends of the supports were laced through channels carved into wooden boards that formed the front and back covers of the book. Then the binding was covered in leather, not a decorative one, after all, I was supposed to be a journal.

Even the metal corner pieces that played the part of ornaments were not made since at that age the metals were costly and if they were added to me then I wouldn’t have come to become what I am now for then I would have become costly for a boy to buy who would later become the greatest mage of all ages. The only ornamental piece present in it was a thin metal symbol cast to form an intricate design that was placed at the center at front of the cover. The ornamental design was then taken as the symbol of the guardian by a foolish boy known as Arthanen who was one of the very first guardians of Irkia.
But the maker wasn’t the one who gave me life, it was the boy Yohan Acrille born from the village known as Everspring. As for how I came to him was a matter of pure happenstance, a trader had bought me from my maker sold me to a merchant at the great city Wenglan, the largest city at that time and another trader bought it from him and brought it to the Everspring Village.

The village was in the eastern part of the then kingdom Arandria, which ruled the east part of the grey land. The other kingdoms were Ferland to the north and Nesalad and Veverin to east. The southern parts at that time were under the holy kingdom of Helan. The kingdom is now buried under the peaked mountains which now stand guard to south from the attacks of stormsouls. The knowledge of stormsouls had now been lost since they are no longer seen as a threat. They also have faded into myths and legends just like Yohan Acrille the talespinner, Lord of Irkia. The man who had lived for 579 years and 75 days, I was a part of his every moment since his tenth year.

The village was a seashore village at the base of a hill that had a tower above it where the old wizard Namkel had lived. My memories after I was bought by Yohan are much clearer.

The young wheezy orphan Yohan had apprenticed himself to the wizard and had been saving money for the visit to the village fair, I could somehow even the remember his first touch. The day was a fine one with all the people moving about while the children ran wild. The old memories of sometimes feel as if I am seeing through the eyes of Yohan, maybe it is so. There was even a myth saying that Yohan had his soul sealed in me.

My understanding of my own situation is very little. I had coalesced knowledge of everything that had been happening throughout the ages but something like me had never happened again or before and there had never been any discussions or deliberations about my existence.

As a book I am the only one which probably had its own adventures or rather can remember the adventures I was carried along with, after all, I was supposed to be a journal, it can be said that I somehow did serve the purpose I was made for. As for the adventures I had, it ended after the death of Yohan Acrille.

After his death, the then lords of Irkia, descendants of Yohan had placed me in my current home, the hall of wisdom which at that moment had a collection of manuscripts, scrolls, and books that would be greater than when combined with all other libraries of the continent. The then irkia which had been an institute of learning, a home to champions and mages and a place of birth to heroes now had fallen during the war of heroes. Ironic, as the very ones who were supposed to protect Irkia, were the ones that lead to its fall.

The halls were set on flames; the great splendors that made Irkia one of the wonders of this land were consumed in the burning torrent of the fire. The statue of seven heroes in the courtyard that was once renowned for its splendor now seemed to look like a bunch of ragtag crippled beggars with two or three of the statues missing their limbs or hands.
The rest of the buildings that once acted as the institutions training grounds, lecture halls, laboratories, and homes have crumbled or on its way to its decay. The few buildings like the halls of truth and halls of wisdom that are protected by magic remain but with a tint of grey that now filled the halls left by the flames. Arthanen would have cried if he was alive, Kraven a prodigy in his age and a great hero in his own right, on the other hand, would have somehow turned the tide and withhold but there wasn’t anyone like Kraven or Elan or Selene or like hundred other chosen during that age to guide Irkia and so it fell and thus ended the age of heroes.

If I could have shown any emotions I would have cried, for everything was lost.
Then the bleakness came, for a time my consciousness couldn’t touch any mind. It was because no king dared to proclaim the lands of Irkia for themselves since the siege of Irkia had left many curses still active even after the death of its casters.

Soon the rumors began spreading that the land was haunted and protected by the spirits of the fallen. And by the passing of time, the land became more hostile with isolation and wildness grew around the city of Irkia. And the once glorious Irkia was lost forever now infested by fiery spirits and fallen warriors.

Then slowly as the years went by my consciousness began to spread, I could start to feel the events of the land and sometimes I would send them visions in dreams sometimes they would trace their visions back to Irkia and a few had visited and some of them were chosen by me to become heroes and champions and since then began the trials of Irkia where men and women brave their way to me through the cursed land to be raised, heroes.

And after many years since the fall of Irkia, they started calling the age once again the age of heroes.

A thousand years have passed since then and for a few years, for now, I had felt disturbances wash over the seventeen kingdoms, the unknown hands that were causing the chaos undoubtedly belong to the stormsouls for I could sense the strength, deceit, and roughness in them only a stormborn possess. The stormborn who are also known as the Vendua, the vanguard of the army of the dead. Their raiders raid the lands from there frozen castles of the southern mist mountains as I speak and their wizards and shades manipulate their way to the opening of the waygate again into the land of Zomvas from which their army can walk into greyland which was once closed by my master.

They must have crowned a new Lynch king; my senses can’t feel that far into their realm for me to be certain but these speculations are unnecessary for if they have started the raid then it can mean only that they are preparing for the welcoming of an army.
The high mages of Arandera the kingdom that was left of Arandria, where my master was born must have felt it too for he had convened the meeting of kings, of course in which only the kings of north and east will be present. Aranderan mages have no sway over the kingdoms of the west and on princely states of the south.

Even now as these very words materialize into my pages they decide to send a group of heroes to be tested, damn their pride for calling them heroes before even their trial and lets the fire consume them for their folly for thinking the lord born and highborn are only the one worthy of being heroes.

Even as they set out I know for no one among them is the prophesied one but one of them, a lost descendant of my lord walks among them, he is not a warrior, not a mage but I can use him, use you for only you may shall enter the hall of truth for they had named the hall just that. If I could have laughed it would have been now for the time has come to cast a new tale and to spin them to the fates.

You the one who reads this, the one of the lost blood, who had passed the doors of fate, has been chosen to be the hand that will spin this tale.


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