The Book of the Fallen (sequel to Lord of Night) | Introduction - yisss book three
Posted January 8th, 2017 by maxi
in Erissa, Erilea, Westeros, The New York Institute, Roshar, Scadrial, New Chicago, Eye of the World, Metallica and Questeria
A/N: Since I literally have no life, I've been outlining and planning and plotting and scheming and world-building for the past few weeks just for book three and boy am I excited for this one. It truly brings life to the world I've made and I can't wait to show you guys more of my world! Questeria honestly means a lot to me and the characters have shaped who I am, also. I have shaped who they are, too. It makes me feel so happy to write about Fravado, Arnaressa, Arkyll, Darren, all of them. I love all my babies. And here they are once more in the Book of the Fallen!
A phantom wind chased over the decrepit, lifeless knolls and mounds.
The mountains and hillocks gathered in a cluster of darkness-shaded land. Then again, it was all darkness-shaded land. Not a hint of spring flowers or summery shrubberies bloomed, just endless wave after wave of darkened hills, even more so by the storm clouds hovering above. The phantom wind sent a chill across the mounds once more, causing the flora to shiver like they’d discovered a haunting secret. One only told to the ghosts.
Trees towered overhead, their leafless limbs reaching out and spreading the land below in dark shadow. The shadows played against one another, creeping and stalking as they parted ways and linked once more in a familiar grasp. Bordering the trees were no critters—none even prowled deep into long-lost burrows that had been carved by fate eons ago—save for ants and mice that would scurry along, searching for foodstuff and supplies for their insensible communities. Ever since the Decay had spread across this land, nothing had ever been the same. No matter how hard the continent tried, the surrounding states knew that the land’s ancestors would be truly disappointed in its stagnancy of progression.
Clouds travelled at an alarming speed. Swirling and interlocking, the billows poured down a heavy fall of rain every now and then. Every so often, a torrential downpour would consume the land before, the day after, it’d be dried up like a desert. As if nothing had ever happened. Even now, the continent’s mass was thick with plumes of mist and shadow—and yet this was a usual day. Perhaps it was the misfortune that gods had brought upon the large island, perhaps it was natural cause. But whatever the bad luck had been birthed from, it was starting to affect Questeria’s main life-source.
A particularly thick Essence, Based purely upon death and ruin, hung in the air and it wasn’t of the pleasant kind. The stench was that of dripping blood, of inner demons given form. Like the touch of a dark goddess had struck the air, a sudden gust of wind shifted its course, the sense of impending death ridding its foul tongue. Millions of demonic patois upon that tongue, also—the demon overlords were growing at the masses, rising overhead like a raging thunderstorm.
Another monumental artifice rising overhead was, simply, of utmost importance to the secrecy of the continent: the High Fortress.
The Fortress was a crumbling tower that had strived and lived for gods-knew-how-long. Forged from the hands of hard-working men, by slabs of cement and flagstone and cobble, the keep—of sorts—was mainly meant to keep anyone from entering the continent. Not that there was anyone to keep watch, of course, and not that the magic bordering the land couldn’t ripple back against those who attempted to trespass. And who would do so, anyway?
These people didn’t know of the Book that lay high atop the Fortress, that lay with its hinges cracked like a door and pages fluttering in that damned ghostly wind. Runes and alchemical inscriptions, spells and hexes—any symbol imaginable, any that came into mind had been written into the Book. As the legend went, “the Book will shine and the Fallen will not rest.” As promised by a legacy made through storm and fire, the Book itself shone. A dazzling illumination, like the Transcendants had grown fire from their fingertips and set the Book alight, bloomed up from the crisp pages. The air swirled, turning the pages as it did so. If the Book could smile, it would. Ten hells, if it could smirk, it’d be donning the most mischievous smirk.
The Fallen will not rest. No; as they never should, the Fallen heroes would come back to their rightful place and the artefact lingering on the top of the Fortress knew this, deep in its ink-stained heart. Magic tainted the pages like a blessing or a boon; the Book hadn’t quite worked out which one it was yet; but it still brought a certain sense of determination.
And that determination made a mission: the Book knew of its legacy. The fate of the Book was to take matters into its own hands and let a hero rise from their unmarked sepulchres. Stinking of shit and filth and blood, the hero would be a new change in the pattern of the telling of the Battle. Somehow, the Book would find a way to make this happen. It wasn’t quite sure how yet, but the specifications of the chosen hero were clear. In fact, the Book knew who to choose.
As the pages recalled through untouched memory, the chosen hero would either restore peace to a realm of ten dying lands. Or send Questeria plummeting into darkness, a brewing storm of fire and water to follow—and it would drown emperors, kings, queens and heirs.
The pages fluttered in the phantom wind, a story being written upon curling pages by a quill made of human bones.
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