Battle of Theaton
Theaton
A leaf-laden vine twisted around the ancient oak at the edge of Theaton’s square, pulsing briefly with an ethereal glow. The soft rustling of leaves filled the air as the vine seemed to breathe, and from within its winding branches, a scroll began to unfurl. The parchment slipped downward, gently spiralling as though emerging from the tree itself, the faint crackling of magic lingering in the air.
Danric, who had been keeping watch in the town square, saw the movement and quickly moved to catch it. He noticed the familiar crest at the top of the scroll and, with a deep breath, unfurled it, expecting to see a message from his daughter.
The message read:
To the Citizens of Theaton,
The Conclave marches on, casting its shadow across every sanctuary we hold dear. As we face battles on many fronts, we are forced to concentrate our forces where aid is most desperately needed, in places that lack Theaton’s strength and cannot defend themselves as you can. It is with a heavy heart that we cannot stand beside you now, but please know this decision is not made lightly.
The choice to remain and defend your home is yours to make, though if you choose to depart before their arrival, know that I am prepared to offer safe passage and guide you across the land to secure havens. Stand vigilant, and know that while aid may be delayed, hope endures and binds us together, no matter the distance.
— Lady Wintergreen Danric closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of the words settle.
The scroll, still clutched in his hands, felt heavier than it should. Each sentence seemed to sink deeper into him, each word a painful reminder of the impossible choices the guild had to make. He took a steadying breath, then made his way to the centre of town.
As he assembled the citizens of Theaton in the square, he could feel the tension rise. The usual hum of the town was replaced with a heavy silence. It was as if the weight of the moment pressed on them all. Danric inhaled deeply, squaring his shoulders and approached the crowd that had gathered to hear the message.
A sharp voice cut through the quiet, full of disbelief and frustration, as he finished speaking. “So they’re abandoning us? We’re just left to fend for ourselves?”
The crowd shifted uneasily, their murmurs growing louder. A ripple of frustration surged through the people, thickening the atmosphere. Danric raised his hand, quieting them with the motion. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but his words carried the weight of responsibility.
“I know you’re angry,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “Believe me, no one feels this loss more than those who sent us this message.” He paused, letting his words settle before continuing, his tone softening but firm. “But they’ve had to make choices we cannot begin to imagine. The guild hasn’t abandoned us—they’ve been forced into impossible decisions. We are not unworthy. We are strong. And Theaton is not just a place.” He looked out at the gathered crowd, his gaze holding each person in the square. “Theaton was born from the ashes of conflict, forged in the fires of perseverance. It’s not just a place on a map, it’s a fire that burns in the hearts of those who’ve stood by it. We carry Theaton with us, not as a memory, but as a living thing. Whatever ground we must leave behind, we take it with us. Wherever we go, Theaton will endure, because it lives in us.”
The murmurs of anger slowly transformed into a quiet understanding. The weight of his words resonated in the square, and though frustration still lingered, it was tempered by a shared resolve.
Danric took another long, steady breath. The moment had arrived. The people were listening, and the time for action had come. His voice rang out again, calm but unwavering.
“Gather what you need—essentials only. Keep it light,” he instructed. “We make haste, moving as one, and we’ll depart at sunset. Theaton will not be left in shadow, and neither will you. Tonight, we start anew.” A quiet determination settled over the crowd. Some nodded in understanding, while others immediately set about preparing. Danric scanned the square, his eyes settling on a young mage near the edge, and he gestured for them to approach.
The mage, their expression unreadable, moved swiftly to Danric’s side. Danric turned, his eyes falling on the statue at the center of the square—a figure carved from pale stone, delicate and wise. His daughter’s likeness, immortalized in stone.
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch the statue’s shoulder, a silent connection between father and daughter. “You found us once,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “And no matter where we go, I know you’ll find us again.”
As his fingers withdrew from the cool stone, Danric leaned closer to the mage, whispering a few hushed words. The mage nodded, their expression solemn, and moved away, beginning a quiet spell. There was an unspoken understanding between them, an urgency in their every movement.
The people of Theaton, now filled with a mix of urgency and resolute courage, began to gather their things. The sounds of hurried preparations filled the square, and Danric took one last lingering look at his daughter’s statue—his daughter, whose spirit would remain in Theaton, no matter where the town would go.
As the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, Danric turned, leading the people of Theaton forward, into the unknown, their hearts steady with the strength of their home. The future was uncertain, but their resolve was unwavering.
Tonight, they would carry Theaton with them, wherever they went.
---
The Conclave arrived in silence, their forces spreading through the deserted streets of Theaton like shadows. They found no people, no opposition—only the empty homes and shops of those who had once called the village their own. In the eerie quiet, their task became simple: lay waste to the structures, corrupt the land, and send a message of dominance.
One by one, they unleashed dark spells and twisted magics upon the buildings, blackening walls, scorching stone, and collapsing rooftops with unsettling efficiency. Sparks flew as the market stalls splintered, the inn fell to rubble, and the guild outpost smoldered, leaving little more than ashes to drift on the night breeze. The village, once warm with life and memories, became a place of ruin.
At the heart of Theaton, however, nestled within a carefully constructed planter surrounded by protective runes, lay the guild’s greatest treasure for the village: the golden acorn, the enchanted seed that had grown into a thriving tree to guard Theaton against the creeping taint of the blight. This ancient ward shimmered faintly with golden light, casting a protective aura over the square—a last act of defense, even as its protectors had fled.
The Conclave’s sorcerers gathered around the tree, their faces twisted with concentration as they channeled blighted magic. Tendrils of dark energy crept from their hands, coiling around the roots of the tree, seeping into the soil with malicious intent. The golden aura sputtered as dark veins began to streak across the bark, creeping upward. Soon, the once-brilliant golden leaves shriveled and blackened, losing their luster as the Conclave’s blighted magic corrupted the tree from root to tip. Slowly, the tree withered, its branches twisting into grotesque shapes. The light dimmed, fading into a sickly green hue, and the air grew thick with a faint, ominous rot, as if the land itself were recoiling in response. The acorn that had been a beacon of protection for the village was now corrupted, its magic inverted to spread the very blight it had once held back.
But even as the Conclave’s forces worked their malice, one monument remained untouched. In the square stood a statue, it's expression calm and steadfast, watching over the ruined village with serene composure. When the Conclave’s soldiers attempted to strike it down, they found their magic dissipating on contact, their weapons striking only to be repelled by an unseen force. Frustrated, they continued their efforts, but nothing could so much as chip the stone.
And so the statue remained, unyielding and proud, standing amid the devastation as a silent testament to the resilience of the people who had once called Theaton home—an indomitable symbol of defiance in the face of corruption.
To the Conclave’s forces, it was as if it was watching them, unshaken and resolute, an unbreakable reminder that, though they had conquered land, they could not conquer spirit.
A leaf-laden vine twisted around the ancient oak at the edge of Theaton’s square, pulsing briefly with an ethereal glow. The soft rustling of leaves filled the air as the vine seemed to breathe, and from within its winding branches, a scroll began to unfurl. The parchment slipped downward, gently spiralling as though emerging from the tree itself, the faint crackling of magic lingering in the air.
Danric, who had been keeping watch in the town square, saw the movement and quickly moved to catch it. He noticed the familiar crest at the top of the scroll and, with a deep breath, unfurled it, expecting to see a message from his daughter.
The message read:
To the Citizens of Theaton,
The Conclave marches on, casting its shadow across every sanctuary we hold dear. As we face battles on many fronts, we are forced to concentrate our forces where aid is most desperately needed, in places that lack Theaton’s strength and cannot defend themselves as you can. It is with a heavy heart that we cannot stand beside you now, but please know this decision is not made lightly.
The choice to remain and defend your home is yours to make, though if you choose to depart before their arrival, know that I am prepared to offer safe passage and guide you across the land to secure havens. Stand vigilant, and know that while aid may be delayed, hope endures and binds us together, no matter the distance.
— Lady Wintergreen Danric closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of the words settle.
The scroll, still clutched in his hands, felt heavier than it should. Each sentence seemed to sink deeper into him, each word a painful reminder of the impossible choices the guild had to make. He took a steadying breath, then made his way to the centre of town.
As he assembled the citizens of Theaton in the square, he could feel the tension rise. The usual hum of the town was replaced with a heavy silence. It was as if the weight of the moment pressed on them all. Danric inhaled deeply, squaring his shoulders and approached the crowd that had gathered to hear the message.
A sharp voice cut through the quiet, full of disbelief and frustration, as he finished speaking. “So they’re abandoning us? We’re just left to fend for ourselves?”
The crowd shifted uneasily, their murmurs growing louder. A ripple of frustration surged through the people, thickening the atmosphere. Danric raised his hand, quieting them with the motion. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but his words carried the weight of responsibility.
“I know you’re angry,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “Believe me, no one feels this loss more than those who sent us this message.” He paused, letting his words settle before continuing, his tone softening but firm. “But they’ve had to make choices we cannot begin to imagine. The guild hasn’t abandoned us—they’ve been forced into impossible decisions. We are not unworthy. We are strong. And Theaton is not just a place.” He looked out at the gathered crowd, his gaze holding each person in the square. “Theaton was born from the ashes of conflict, forged in the fires of perseverance. It’s not just a place on a map, it’s a fire that burns in the hearts of those who’ve stood by it. We carry Theaton with us, not as a memory, but as a living thing. Whatever ground we must leave behind, we take it with us. Wherever we go, Theaton will endure, because it lives in us.”
The murmurs of anger slowly transformed into a quiet understanding. The weight of his words resonated in the square, and though frustration still lingered, it was tempered by a shared resolve.
Danric took another long, steady breath. The moment had arrived. The people were listening, and the time for action had come. His voice rang out again, calm but unwavering.
“Gather what you need—essentials only. Keep it light,” he instructed. “We make haste, moving as one, and we’ll depart at sunset. Theaton will not be left in shadow, and neither will you. Tonight, we start anew.” A quiet determination settled over the crowd. Some nodded in understanding, while others immediately set about preparing. Danric scanned the square, his eyes settling on a young mage near the edge, and he gestured for them to approach.
The mage, their expression unreadable, moved swiftly to Danric’s side. Danric turned, his eyes falling on the statue at the center of the square—a figure carved from pale stone, delicate and wise. His daughter’s likeness, immortalized in stone.
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch the statue’s shoulder, a silent connection between father and daughter. “You found us once,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “And no matter where we go, I know you’ll find us again.”
As his fingers withdrew from the cool stone, Danric leaned closer to the mage, whispering a few hushed words. The mage nodded, their expression solemn, and moved away, beginning a quiet spell. There was an unspoken understanding between them, an urgency in their every movement.
The people of Theaton, now filled with a mix of urgency and resolute courage, began to gather their things. The sounds of hurried preparations filled the square, and Danric took one last lingering look at his daughter’s statue—his daughter, whose spirit would remain in Theaton, no matter where the town would go.
As the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, Danric turned, leading the people of Theaton forward, into the unknown, their hearts steady with the strength of their home. The future was uncertain, but their resolve was unwavering.
Tonight, they would carry Theaton with them, wherever they went.
---
The Conclave arrived in silence, their forces spreading through the deserted streets of Theaton like shadows. They found no people, no opposition—only the empty homes and shops of those who had once called the village their own. In the eerie quiet, their task became simple: lay waste to the structures, corrupt the land, and send a message of dominance.
One by one, they unleashed dark spells and twisted magics upon the buildings, blackening walls, scorching stone, and collapsing rooftops with unsettling efficiency. Sparks flew as the market stalls splintered, the inn fell to rubble, and the guild outpost smoldered, leaving little more than ashes to drift on the night breeze. The village, once warm with life and memories, became a place of ruin.
At the heart of Theaton, however, nestled within a carefully constructed planter surrounded by protective runes, lay the guild’s greatest treasure for the village: the golden acorn, the enchanted seed that had grown into a thriving tree to guard Theaton against the creeping taint of the blight. This ancient ward shimmered faintly with golden light, casting a protective aura over the square—a last act of defense, even as its protectors had fled.
The Conclave’s sorcerers gathered around the tree, their faces twisted with concentration as they channeled blighted magic. Tendrils of dark energy crept from their hands, coiling around the roots of the tree, seeping into the soil with malicious intent. The golden aura sputtered as dark veins began to streak across the bark, creeping upward. Soon, the once-brilliant golden leaves shriveled and blackened, losing their luster as the Conclave’s blighted magic corrupted the tree from root to tip. Slowly, the tree withered, its branches twisting into grotesque shapes. The light dimmed, fading into a sickly green hue, and the air grew thick with a faint, ominous rot, as if the land itself were recoiling in response. The acorn that had been a beacon of protection for the village was now corrupted, its magic inverted to spread the very blight it had once held back.
But even as the Conclave’s forces worked their malice, one monument remained untouched. In the square stood a statue, it's expression calm and steadfast, watching over the ruined village with serene composure. When the Conclave’s soldiers attempted to strike it down, they found their magic dissipating on contact, their weapons striking only to be repelled by an unseen force. Frustrated, they continued their efforts, but nothing could so much as chip the stone.
And so the statue remained, unyielding and proud, standing amid the devastation as a silent testament to the resilience of the people who had once called Theaton home—an indomitable symbol of defiance in the face of corruption.
To the Conclave’s forces, it was as if it was watching them, unshaken and resolute, an unbreakable reminder that, though they had conquered land, they could not conquer spirit.
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