The Mourning War

A myth of my own devising, and related to a project of mine in its last legs before publishing. I hope you enjoy it.

This is an account of the last, and simultaneously most and least certain, events of what is coming to be called 'The Age of Myth'. The Mourning War, as it has been dubbed, where our Lords, at the behest of the Maiden, took up arms against their brother, in whom much power had been vested. The Lord of Forms, master and teacher of magic, had taken an altogether inappropriate interest in the Living while privileging some above others as was his right. However, he held no standards for those he privileged, as the Lord of Forms could abide by no certainties of any nature at that time save that of his own whim as a paramount guide.

Some, a pitiful few, among his devotees refused to join in his growing madness and lust for Here to be his absolute domain. But with no deals made, he could not revoke his gifts to them. However, he denied them further powers and set assassins after them to recoup the portions of his power that they held as those righteous souls fled their hidden lair. As the first Witches stepped out into the light of day, with newly inspired intent of murder in their hearts for their fleeing fellows, the Maiden saw their desires, as she sees all others, and sought to intervene. The fantasies in their hearts were foreign and unnatural to the world, which had known nought but the necessities of nature at this time. She roused the Lords to defend the abandoned children of the Lord of Forms, with The Warden acting swiftest to bless them with his protection.

With this act, the Blessing of the Founders, the first of the Lords and Maiden became known, whereas before, only the Lord of Forms had exposed himself to the Living's eyes. As they learned to defend themselves and each other, they swore oaths of protection, forming the first of the Monks Militant. At this, the Redemptor made his presence known, searing their words upon their eyelids so they may never forget or abandon their promises. Soon after, their assassins overtook them in the wilds of the Vale, and warming fires turned to blazing infernos and cool breezes were twisted into bone-chilling gales. Plants were encouraged not merely to grow and feed the hungry but to learn hate and act on that hate against the Living. Vines sought to crush bone, thorns grew to cut flesh, and vile toxins of enticing colour and smell propagated in beautiful flowers.

Yet, standing together, the Founders rebuffed their attackers, matching them strength for strength. Water pulled from the creeping vines snuffed flames as they sprung to life, and the glinting of the setting sun melted ice and warmed the Founder's skin as they weathered their would-be killers' virginal violence. The power of three of the Lords and Maiden, though less practiced in the manipulation of Here, proved the perfect equal of the Lord of Forms' minions. As his assassins withdrew, their bloodlust unanswered, hate festered its way deeper into their souls.

That evening, as the Moon Lord took his place in the sky, he, the Warden, and The Hammer Lord came to the Founders, gifting them weapons and armour, the knowledge and rules of their just use, and the creation of more, should the Lord of Forms remain a threat in the future. The Founders asked the Lords what of the Lord of Forms had been done by them, for their connection to him had remained for a time, and they had felt it be severed, though they knew not how. The Lords would not speak of him, saying only that he'd been banished from Eternity, as his choices ill-befitted his station.

Though none of the Living know for certain what happened in Eternity that day, from this, we do know that the Lord of Forms was ousted from that realm, banished elsewhere, to the In-Between, where some believe he remains, waiting, granting power to those who'll make deals with him, as he learned that day the value of deals where power is concerned.

The Founders, armed, armoured, and assured that they were blessed by powers equal to their megalomaniacal former master, returned to their lair. All but one gave their lives in cleansing that crypt, the first Scouring of the Wounds of Here. As he re-emerged, blood-soaked and battle-weary, The Lord of the Lost asked that he bring the bodies of his compatriots, both righteous and unrighteous. After he brought forth his companions and former family, The Lord of the Lost bid him to sing. The Lament was sung for the first time as The Hammer and Moon Lords set a silver flame to burn their corpses, guiding their spirits to Eternity. That was, until the flame tried to touch the bodies of the Witches.

Theirs resisted the flame, a strange hissing sound coming forth from wherever the flame dared touch; only their clothes were catching it, and the flame there turned black as the night sky. As the Lament died on the living Founder's lips, his words failing him as he stared at the twisting flame, it suddenly consumed the Witches in a heartbeat, leaving nothing behind save a wicked laugh at the edge of hearing.

"What has happened?" Our Church Father demanded of the Lords present, and they told him that the souls of the Witches were not present in Eternity, nor had they remained Here. That it may be that The Lord of Forms had invoked a claim upon their souls; thus, they were bound to him, lost in the In-Between alongside their master.

"And those who stood with me?" He demanded, distrust growing in his heart, terrified that he may have traded one slaver for another.

"They are mine, for now." The Lord of the Lost spoke, his voice low, soft as a whisper, but plainly heard. "They'll have their choice of allegiance in Eternity, as will you and the Living Here. But choose you must, else you pass through the In-Between undefended, and may lose your way in the now unfriendly abyss. We did not want this, but our brother has corrupted the way of our realms, and defences must be brought to bear. You must bring the truth to the Living. They must know, else they be lost as these have been." The Lord knelt in the spaces where the Witches had burned, his hands unable to find even the tiniest trace of their spirits where their bodies once were.

Before he could ask how, a mischievous giggle came from behind him as his britches fell from his waist. Panicking, he pulled his clothes upon himself again, facing the tricksome thing. It laughed as it rolled in the air, as a child who has succeeded in a prank does, and the Founder's anger and embarrassment were tempered in his breast.

Eventually, the strange creature ceased cackling, speaking as its laughter died: "That's how you teach them. You get their attention first, then speak." It giggled again, snorting and chuckling at jokes and pranks only it knew of. The Founder could feel rage ebbing as he heard wisdom in the Jester's ways, though they appeared at first to be the ill manners of a child. The stunted creature capered away, chortling as it disappeared.

"You would do well if you heed the Jester. He may seem a fool, but not once in our existence has he been proven wrong." The Lord of the Lost touched our Founder's shoulder, easing him with the peace of Eternity, before bidding him be on his way to a hamlet to the southeast, where he began his toils to preserve our world, which we persevere in to this very day.

- Account of Head Scholar Ivaran, the Sighted, blessed to witness in visions the Founding of the Church of the Victorious Lords and Maiden, written in Hildan Village, 330 years after the events described.