An old idea redone.

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An old idea redone.

Post by SerinitysChild »

Iris and the Silver Mage


After three thousand years the war between the gods stagnates into a stalemate. The shifting vagaries of war leave the mortal survivors huddle in their hovels, trembling at the thought of the gods renewing their attacks. Vast farmlands that once provided plentiful harvests now lay fallow for lack of farmers to tend the fields. No beasts pull plows. No hands plant seeds. Woodsmen and charcoal burners lament the loss of tree covered mountains that once soared above the horizon in snow capped glory that now stand barren, their verdant slopes covered in ash.

any refugees from the mortal races survive but because of the hatred of the gods engendered within them. With each passing generation the gods have fewer followers. In the end only the long lived races remember the war of the ancient gods. In time Tandor heals the scars of the war and once more the fields grow ripe with grain. The slopes of the mountains regain their verdant cloaks. Long years after the war, life expands slowly across the world. Children of the mortals that fought each other on the battlefields now join forces to create new life. Humans, elves and dwarves, along with all the new variations of those three races mix their blood creating new beings. In time it becomes impossible to know the ancestry of any being simply by looking at them.

However, for a few isolated cities of beings whose ancestors refused to commingle their blood with what they consider inferior beings, the pride of being pure blood garners the attention of the surviving gods and goddesses of darkness. Within the souls of these beings lay the seeds of war certain gods and goddesses nourish. In these people the war of the gods is not forgotten. In these people hatred of those who mixed their blood with others grows into a raging torrent that one day will burst the dams of sanity and drown the impure with their own blood and gore.


Deep in the Forest of Dreams, within the protection of solid oak walls, a half-elf half-human woman screams in pain as her child makes his way from the warmth of her womb into the harsh reality of a cold, uncaring world. Hurriedly the midwife gives orders to her apprentice and the child is freed from his umbilical cord. As he voices his anger at being summarily pushed out of the only home he’s ever known, his mother looks upon her son and smiles fondly, if weakly.

Fingers and toes, ears and nose are counted to be sure that all the bits and pieces are in their proper place. Only one anomaly mars the birth of her child. His hair, once it’s dried is burnished silver in color. His mother names him T’Xana Martis giving him his father’s tribal name first and his common name second.

Halfway across the continent, in another kingdom, another child is born. Her half-human half-dwarf mother looks down on her child and sees hair as black and glossy as a crow’s wings in winter. When the baby girl opens her eyes her mother gasps. The girl’s pupils are a mixture of purple and silver. Whirled stripes intermingle in a tightening spiral that looks as if they form a bridge between the outer world and the child’s inner soul.

Images well up in the mother’s mind. These images tell an ancient story about a goddess that crosses between the worlds of the gods to mortal worlds and back, bearing messages. And so, she names her daughter Iris in honor of that goddess.

Watching both births are messengers of the few remaining gods of light. Tiny spots of light in the forests whisper to each other of the new lives brought forth and of the challenges the gods might set in the paths. Sprits, the children of nature, wing their way deep into the forests and commune with the spirits of the ancient trees who pass along the sprites words to the old gods.


A dozen other children are born on this day. Eight of these children are touched by darker gods. Within their hearts the seeds of hatred are placed along with the desire to conquer the world and all those who inhabit it.
After a thousand years of stagnant war the gods of light and dark gather their forces. They walk the world in search of those whose souls can be turned and twisted into followers of their cause. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters leave their families to follow this god or that goddess, dividing the world and destroying the harmony that has been slowly developing.

On the world of Tandor right and wrong have no more importance than one’s ancestry. All that matters when the gods make war is which side you are on when the war is over.
More rampant silliness.

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