Re: Rumors & Events of Triel [RP]
Posted: Fri Mar 27, 2026 2:14 pm
(image courtesy of AI rendering from in-game screenshot)Late Alturiak - Early Ches 1362
The Hellfire Wyrm failed.
These certainly were words of reminding truth in the coming future, but these attempts to placate the wizard Eberc fell deaf upon his ears. No, it was not years of ringing upon that anvil that deadened his senses but witnessing his very efforts as a mere man reduced to a tinderbox to the wrathful, wanton tongue of a hellish wyrm. He was there at the ritual that day when the Red Wizard was put down. He was present, too, for when the hills of Triel were set aflame, and through the consuming pyre around, he was helpless to bear witness to his home being razed.
Suddenly, it felt as if a cold stake had been driven into the man's heart, and his stomach churned over. Since the time Eberc first enchanted his clockwork companion, the Gondsmen, to false life, there was an immediate line of communication established—a mental link between man and machine—and it spoke to him in a stream of nigh-unintelligible noise, yet only in the man's mind. All during the ritual he had been exchanging information and communicating with the machine until the first gout of flame flashed through the village and the voice in Eberc's mind went quiet and radio-silent. Moving, animate parts of cold, emotionless metal sent out one last query across the wire of the Weave connecting the two that echoed boldly into the wizard's mind. Though it expressed no feeling or sentiment of its own, the construct emitted a singular term that shattered the heart of Eberc, as he was able to interpret the distorting jargon into one final question:
F̷̢̫̿͂̚͜ͅR̸̻̥̯͔̹̖͉͠I̷̭̖͙̲̖͔̙̦͑̀͆͌̓̔̋̚Ȩ̷̛̞̩̠̜̘̠͇̑̈́̈́N̸͙̫̝̩̅Ḓ̸̪̠͊̑̓͂̀̓?̵̧̻̩̭̄͋̒̀͗̉̈́̄͘"
The air around him surged with hate-ridden heat, and the intensity of the flames grew ever taller, screaming with a rush of violent wind, yet a silent void in his thoughtful consciousness drowned out all cries from his allies to retreat. "To create is to destroy," whispered an echo from a familiar voice in an attempt to disturb the silence. It was Eberc's second-year transmutation professor, conjured in this absence, to remind the student of a long-ago lesson. These words reverberated endlessly in his mind now that the constant hum of the machine's language was suddenly hushed. The fire around him burned so hot he could not feel his face flush with rage, and his tears dried before they could even streak.
Eberc collapsed to his knees as the seeds of his creation and fruits of his labor were spoiled before him, for it was not a minute later before the windmill too collapsed inward upon itself as a ruinous heap. It would burn for days to come all while his machine, his pride, and his friend lie buried at the foot of it all. . .
(image courtesy of AI rendering from in-game screenshot)24-25 Ches 1362
The wizard's skin grew hot to the touch. He began to perspire heavily and choke upon the very air around him. The man cried out as the image of the windmill remained before him and burned for what seemed like eternity. He was helpless and paralyzed to watch as first the awning to the outdoor forge came down upon his crafted comrade, though a figure in the window distracted him. He narrowed dry eyes to peer through the engulfing flames. It was then he recognized her. She was of fragile form with black hair, grey and weathered with time, equipped with dark and intuitive eyes. It was her smile, however, that Eberc found recognition in. She gave but a gentle, small wave as the second floor gave way, toppling the third into the ground as the rest of the village began to crack and give way to the earth beneath. He tried to crawl towards the volcanic rift as buildings one by one were swallowed up, only to be drawn back by imposing, invisible arms. He fought back with arms to flail and feet to kick and mouth open to scr—
Eberc awoke to an urgent knocking at the door of his rented room. It frightened him to life from this nightmare so greatly that he leapt up to his feet, wide-eyed and panicking with a heave of his chest. The patrons of the Helm & Cloak too were afraid by a sudden, blood-curdling shriek that came from Eberc's room. This was the second night this week he had brought alarm, embarrassment, and ire upon himself, for he was beginning to grow foul to the taste of poppy-seed tincture, a sedative he once relied upon for the dark and violent nights.
It had been almost a month to the very date since the destruction of Triel. The event seemed so long ago and entirely recent as well. The Gondar felt a wave of nausea overtake him as the dilapidated outline stood stark against scorched earth and cindered trees. As he entered the village, the clatter of tools and trinkets resounded through the air. It was eerily quiet save for the faint trill and chattering of songbirds that herald the change of season. Another change garnered the man's eye: the shifting development of earthworks that had been disturbed and tilled, but he ventured forth and pressed on to a particular pile of rubble heaped together in the shadow of the Triadic Church just across the river.
He plies the charred remains of boards free, most to turn to dust in his clutches. The awning gives way to collapse entirely with a plume of dust, arousing a wheezing cough from Eberc as he waves the air to clear the haze of debris. There beneath the cindered ruins of wood and shingles, he found his construct hunched over the anvil, inanimate and lifeless in repose. The machine had cradled the working block of iron in an attempt to save it, but for naught, as the Gondsman's mangled, molten, twisted body fused with the anvil; the two are now welded as one.
The Gondar advanced and knelt upon his knees. He doffed a glove just then and placed his fleshy touch upon the disfigured helm of the clockwork companion. Although a silent tear streaks from his left cheek, the wizard-smith musters a bleak smile in the moment. He dots the edge of a glassy eye and rises to bid a final farewell and sermon over the man-made man's-best-friend.
"Go with Gond now, for your work here is done. There is nothing more for you to give—for you have given it all, friend. Thank you."
Only a single gear is salvaged from the heap of scrap and slag, warped and beyond repair, yet he dons it upon the red scarf wound around his neck, and it is here where the razed cog now presides as a new icon of faith, succeeding the last holy symbol dedicated to the Gearsmith.
Here is where Eberc rests for awhile in a quiet state of contemplation. He takes in the stillness of the village, broken up only by the sounds of nature re-emerging from the chilling grip of winter. For the first time since that awful night that changed the lives of many, Eberc feels a modicum of peace as he sits beside the wreck of metal he called friend and wears a hopeful smile. He eventually does rise and dust himself off. The wizard-smith softly claps his hands together, turns to his melded machine, now defunct, and smiles faintly with a nasal sigh. "I've got work to do," he excuses himself in a hushed breath and hurries off to find a particular man and earth spirit already largely at labor.
