"I imagined I was floating
Alone in the vast abyssal sea
Like a violent storm
But I wasn’t - I was falling
As fast as my material body could But the distance was infinite
And there was nothing near By which to judge
What was truly happening, and so
It seemed I wasn’t moving at all."
-The Last King, Cyrian
It left the world and took its flight over the wide seas of the night. The moon set sail upon the gale, and stars were fanned to leaping light.
Prologue
My quest for answers relating to the Great Silencing led me all over Kandalur; and it was, by sheer and utter luck, that I stumbled upon the first, to my knowledge, ruin with implications of old Cyria. A noblewoman known only as The Red Warrior to history, left behind a memoir of sorts; detailing the secession of Cyria, its initial corruption, and the mad musings of its King. This book is not meant to be a thorough treatise of the history of Cyrian people. For, that would be a dangerous misrepresentation of the mystery of Cyria. Indeed it is impossible to construct such a history given the diminutive amount of evidence their peoples left behind. Rather, it is to be a philosophical delving into the possible denouement of their narrative in Kandalur, and quite possibly the material plane.
The short-lived Cyrian civilization is one of the greatest mysteries that Kandalur has to offer. The meteoric rise of this magocracy, its brief reign of unimaginable power, the dark and profane experiments done within, and the eventual disappearance of Cyria all lend to great bed time stories; but what truths lie within those stories? In my travels in northern Kandalur, I traveled for a time with the Quildan. In that time, I was first introduced to Cyria by Speaker Urdan. He told me that the history of this doomed civilization was written in the stars, and thus gave me his account of the history of Cyria. This is what led me to search out The Red Warrior and read her account.
A TEMPESTUOUS RISE
"It left this world and took its flight"
Long before the untimely and tragic fall of Nerath, during an age of unparalleled magical, medicinal, and ecological discovery, there was a fragmentation within the hierarchy of mages. Two schools of thought emerged from amongst these individuals. On one hand, traditionalists wanted to maintain the course of Nerath’s current history. On the other, a new school of thought, led by a young and talented mage named Cyrian, wanted magic to be the central focus of life. The traditionalists ultimately won out, leading Nerath into a golden age of prosperity and expansion, where both noble and common folk thrived. However, the splinter group of mages, under Cyrian’s leadership, would not be silenced.
They stood on streets in every corner of civilization, proselytizing their vision to all that would listen. Over the coming months and years, they gained a significant following. The movement had taken up a moniker, The Knights of Cyria, named of course for their founder and leader, Cyrian. The Knights of Cyria settled on an island, some 10 miles off the Cradled Coast, displacing the native Elves. Thus, Cyria was born.
For a time, Cyria thrived. Despite the obvious problematic ideologies, Cyrian proved to be a good leader, fair and true. He wove magic into every facet of life, creating constructs to aid in the tedious and mundane; farming became a leisurely pursuit, automatons delivered mail and cleaned the streets. The people of Cyria were happy with their new lives. Less time working meant more time for the pursuit of knowledge, travel and art.
Over time, Cyrian developed something called a rapture stone. A stone imbued with the incredible power of flight and eventually instantaneous travel. After a long period of development, Cyrian was able to imbue the earth itself with these stones, and with that, the entire island nation of Cyria was lifted from its earthly anchor. It soared above the Cradled Coast in the summer months and settled over the desert regions of Aldesta for the long winter. The people of Cyria reveled in their King’s might and mastery over the Arcane.
This happiness would be short-lived, for with the acquisition and the ability to wield power, Cyrian became obsessed with pushing the boundaries of magic. His madness drove him to perform unspeakable experiments and eventually turn on his own people.
WOE AND RUIN
The decay of Cyria was like most living things, slow and subtle and then all at once grotesque. It began with Cyrian isolating himself within his tower. He would stay there for weeks on end coming out only to bark orders at some ill- fated subordinate who was simply passing by. His appearance became more and more disheveled. His hair becoming a thin, wispy mane of matted white string. His eyes sunk deep into his skull and his pale, white skin stretched across his bones revealing his skeleton within. The King, Cyrian, could have been mistaken for dead, save for the fire that burned within his dark green eyes.
In the king’s prolonged absence, a young noblewoman took charge of the everyday runnings of the city state. Her hair was like the summer sun, stunningly blonde with hints of red like fire. Her name, too, showed the passion that burned within her. Grian was her name, and she was a warrior; tall, lean and strong. She took pride in the smiles that she brought to the people and the people grew to love her. The people began to only refer to Cyrian as “The Dead King” as they laughed about their pretermitted king over meals and drinks.
It did not take long, even in his isolation, for Cyrian to hear what his people called him. It brought a smile to his rotting face, for little did they know that he was no longer living, but he was not yet among the dead either. He had uncovered a dark and terrible secret. A secret that but few mortals ever hear.
Cyrian had, in his studies and musings, discovered the methods, rituals, and components necessary to delay his death for time unending. He had delved into the dark powers and swore the dark pact of lichdom. He began to kidnap citizens who traveled alone, siphoning their life-force to feed his, to make his body strong for the ritual that was to come. First it was just one person, then, drunk on the power flowing through his body, one became two. Two became ten. It was never enough he needed all of them. He would not only be their Dead King. He would be their Last King.
TO WHERE AND WHAT END
"the moon set sail upon the gail"
The time had come. Cyrian had made his preparations. He set about a great spell to beckon everyone from their homes, in their sleep. Then all at once, he would draw them into his own.
The spell worked for all save one. Grian resisted the spell and remained in a deep sleep as all around her there was a great exodus of people slowly marching toward Cyrian’s tower. Their eyes wide and yet unseeing, the mob came to a halt in the bottom of the tower. Then, all at once, the life was drawn from that place. With a collective sigh, the dead fell to the ground.
Grian awoke to a great shuddering of the island. Foundations cracked and windows shattered. The ground itself rose up in great fractal heaps. Grian ran from building to building looking to help her fellow people. No one could be found. She ran all over the city, tears now running down her face, she was crying out for anyone. She collapsed in the town square, hopeless. The ground opened up underneath and she plummeted towards the dark waters of Vega Caye. As she fell, she looked up and saw Cyria shudder and then phase out of existence, leaving nothing but open air. That was the last she saw.
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