PANGERATH

The Future is Born

Pangerath, a strange and curious continent hidden in the oceans of earth, unseen by the technologies of modern man, save for the few who unknowingly happen to cross its path. Since the time of the pharaohs forces unknown have preserved the lands protecting and hiding its secrets from the outside world, while keeping those that live here from leaving its mystical borders.

Tales and stories of its existence have circulated for millennia. Some who have caught a glimpse of this mysterious land mistakenly called it the lost continent of Atlantis. Some who were in its proximity have disappeared, leading to the notions of the Bermuda triangle or the lost lands of Lemuria in the Indian oceans, as well as the submerged continent of Zealandia.

All can be true of Pangerath. Its beauty rivals Plato’s accounts of Atlantis, its secrets more perplexing than that of the Bermuda triangle. But make no mistake there is only one Pangerath a world within a world.

The inhabitants of Pangerath believe that their land is the only land, which includes an archipelago of islands that surround and shift with Pangerath, all evolving at a much slower pace than that of modern man, who, at this time are at the dawn of the twenty first century and living across the great waters to the south.

It is Pangeraths dark ages, a time of tested friendships and loyalties.

An age of good and evil, goblins, wizards, witches, Orcs, Ogres, dragons and heroic knights, as well as various other strange and magical creations walk this land.

Rolling hills with harmoniously flowing green grass lay paths through strong and sturdy oaks as well as giant redwoods. There, accompanying the mighty trees is a magical forest which runs along the south west side of the island all the way up to the north where it vanishes into Lake Tyrn.

Lake Tyrn, separated by the valley of twin lakes, empties into the grand oceans to the east and west. Ice cold pure drinking waters from near the top of Hellwyn Mountains, free fall into Lake Tyrn’s mouth resting that rests at the bottom of the mountain.

Lake Tyrn’s eastern repository also supports a waterfall but on a less grandiose scale than that of the Hellwyn Mountains. This waterfall however pours down into the great Lake Windemere.

Lake Windemere is the receiver and the giver of life sustaining waters for all of Pangerath, its spidery network of converging streams, rivers and wetlands runs north to south following the tree lined path of the magical forest. Waters that help supply relief to all of Pangerath, its crops and grasslands as well as all its inhabitants, finally flushing into the great ocean in the south.

The lands from north to south and east to west are divided by three kingdoms each with their respective boundaries proclaimed by flags mounted on poles at various locations throughout their lands. They are at peace for now.

The royalty write the laws by which the villagers residing inside their borders must abide by, garrisons of knights protect these borders and uphold these laws.

All three monarchs are content to rule their respective lands with little to no war, but for how long they can hold onto their land, is about to be challenged.

The breath of free air entitled to all is about to be suppressed by the foul stench of submission.

Unopposed; one cruel, immoral and malevolent wizard, will alone try to bring death and destruction to them all. He is no longer content to remain isolated in his small area south of the kingdoms, attacking small villages for scraps, along his south eastern borders in lower Pangerath. He longs to conquer all of Pangerath and be the one and only ruler enforcing his will, enslaving all. His time has come to put his ultimate plan into action.

His name is Malus. A maleficent pale man standing six foot or so, with shoulder length light brown wavy hair, green, blue, grey eyes dependant on mood sometimes turning true black, absent pupils.

Wearing a black leather shirt and pants with black leather forearm bands, that reach to the knuckles. A black hooded cloak hangs about his neck, nearly touching the ground.

His inclination to go to war stems from his upbringing in the deep south of Pangerath and of not to ever again bow to the demands of another, to take what he desires with no regard of the consequences of his actions.

Raised by a hard, iron-fisted and disciplined father some forty plus seasons ago, he was taught early on the art of magic’s by his father, who was in-turn taught by his father. His mother had died in child birth, giving rise to a father’s censure of his son, which only grew more vengeful as time progressed.

Malus’s only desire as a child was the approval of his father, and he absorbed the abuse at his hand owing it to his own insubordination. At the tender age of seven or so Malus had started to realize that his father would be gone from their home many a night. And even though his father afflicted him, he still desired his father’s attentions. So one night he followed his father on one of his outings, hiding in the nearby woods of the magical forest he spied his father and a woman, a white witch in fact, running back teary-eyed at the thought of another having the attentions of his father, he confronted him upon his return. His father, not one to be questioned least of all by a child, flew into a rage once again, this time striking Malus in the face with his right hand that supported a black and red stoned golden ring, tearing the flesh from atop his brow on the right, down to his right upper cheek, a permanent reminder that to this day remains a scar and the ring used in this deformity now rests with its abused.

This was the start of Malus’s unwavering fortitude to never again back down, never again be abused by another, and most of all his overwhelming hatred of the white witches and the destruction of his family he assigned all of them.

He now stands a sorcerer of sorcerers; his knowledge of the arts is unequalled. Many who have tested his power are no longer, as he like his father now, has become the abuser.

Some admiring or maybe fearing the rage of this power stand by his side, serving this lust, … his four elemental harbingers of death; high priests of the arts.

A storm is brewing in lower Pangerath above King Jyl’s castle in the kingdom of Bubastis in lower Pangerath.

As the cold wind blows and winter begins its encroachment, trees shed their multi colored leaves and prepare to take on the bite of winter.

Dark clouds gather and wrestle in the night sky creating powerful winds that toss about the autumn leaves into a whirlwind. Proud trees bend to the breaking point; thick branches succumb and are carried off by the strong winds embrace.

The Kings castle, stands alone in the darkness and cold of night, surrounded by large stone walls, a deep and wide moat 10 feet wide runs along the outside walls; a drawbridge imbedded in the stone walls to the south serves as the only entry point inside.

Massive guard towers on each corner of the walls hold the archers as do the walkways connecting the towers.

It is lit by huge black cauldrons of hot oil that are at each corner and when needed can be poured into the trenches which run along the base of the walkway, emptying through small holes located every few inches, raining down onto unsuspecting armies below.

The dark clouds twisting in the night sky begin to slow as if they wish to witness what is to happen below. They break slightly, opening to a full moon, a hunter’s moon, lighting the battlefield below and revealing the intruding army of black armored knights mounted on their armor laden horses, holding long serrated lances.

Standing at the rear of goblins they await their orders.

Goblins, greenish wiry creatures wearing old putrid torn clothes, mischievous runts with a hatred of humans, their mouths open wide displaying hundreds of blackened thorn like teeth, they stand hunched over, huffing, creating chunky fowl smelling drool desiring of the fight to come.

A long bony narrow nose curved downwards to a point just above their upper lip as well as large pointed ears give goblins their grotesque look. At a height of only 4 feet and brandishing small swords, their love of war echoes in there black eyes .

Side by side they stand with huge muscle ridden fair skinned orcs, some have definitely eaten in excess displayed by their plump, dumpy bellies and mirrored hanging chins, while others are the complete opposite of their fattened brethren, displaying hulking muscles of immense proportions.

Battle scars canvas most of their bodies. Some have huge black boils spread out across their backs and chest, no doubt from the polluted wastes they sleep in.

Wearing loin cloths around their waists, with spiked leather armor on their shoulders and wrists.

Some have also taken to hanging skulls of their victims across their shoulders displaying their prowess in battle.

Devoid of footwear, their huge dirty blackened feet and nails support this huge body.

Orcs tower above the humans and goblins alike, eight to ten feet tall, protruding tusks on each side of their lower lip and small pointed ears, with little to no hair as well as a constant snarl, making their demeanor devilish and unsightly.

Resting on their massive shoulders they wield large war hammers of thick wood shafts imbedded in stones of different shapes and sizes. With a hatred of man and a love of war, they stand and wait grunting heavily at the fight to come. They have all come because of their desire for war and carnage or maybe for fear of Malus’s retaliation should they not heed his call. Make no mistake the blood of humans rests deeply in their minds.

Malus stands atop a hill in the distance overlooking his army and the poorly defended and outnumbered castle ahead, a tall foreboding figure dressed in a long black robe trimmed with red inscriptions. A hood covers his head, shadowing his face inside for none to see.

He has been in solitude in the underworld to the far southeast corner of Pangerath enlisting his army of destruction for the sole purpose of conquering all the lands and enforcing his will; to be Lord of Pangerath is his reason, ultimate power is his inspiration. It is time to test this army of his.

Without a word he stretches out his right arm high into night sky, gripping hard his black crystal staff beneath his left hand, slamming the staff into the earth creating a tremendous rolling thunder within the earth before him. His army below acknowledges and commences their assault on King Jyl’s castle.

The king’s army of knights on foot and horse have gathered outside in front of the moat surrounding the castle, defending the solid oak drawbridge behind them. The king’s ground defense stands nervous but ready. Their eyes show the horror of what may be their last battle, for they have not seen war and are not battle tested, but this is their home and their way of life is being assaulted; so they wait.

At the king’s order, the towers holding the archers grab their arrows, dipping them into the containers of oil and flames hidden at their feet. Raising their bows and drawing back their flaming arrows they release, sending a steel toothed shroud of flame through the air, shadowing the moon above, lighting the ground below, penetrating Malus’s army.

Screams of anguish break the silence, as arms, legs, heads and torso are pierced with the burning metal tipped arrows setting some targets clothing ablaze, a chaotic scene of shrieking creatures engulfed in flames erupts as they scurry to rid themselves of the clothes now melting to their skin.

The knights and foot soldiers follow suit and march forward; the armor and chain mail clad soldiers pull down their metal visors, raise their bronze tipped spears under their right arms. Held under their left arms, are their body length bronze rectangular shields with the crest of Lithuran - an open winged hawk surrounded in flames. In the center of the crest a protruding metal spike.

Side by side the soldiers create a wall of metal spiked shields; with a roar they step slowly forward, at each step they clash their spears to shield creating a thunderous sound of metal on metal. Trying but failing to intimidate their foes.

After a short march they finally meet the advancing Orcs and goblins; it has begun.

Screams of agonizing death shatter the once peaceful lands, as soldiers, knights and horse alike, fall helplessly to the onslaught of Malus’s army. King Jyls men are no match for the pure strength and fortitude of this army, the abominations before them have no regard for life so they fear not nor care not as they slash and swing there massive weapons at the fear ridden opponents in front of them, at times killing their allies in the process .

The land before them once pure and green is now blanketed with the bodies of the fallen, feet soaked with blood march onward to death or glory, which ever may come first.

Orc's rip arms from torso, goblins slice and bite off pieces of the opponents flesh veiling their faces in mans blood.

With not even a thought of the fallen friend or foe in front of them, they step on or over the bodies as they advance.

Malus’s army along with his 4 Harbingers very tall, seven foot and above slim wizards.

Tattoos of the elements they represent cover their bald heads, as well as other cryptic, hieroglyphic symbols covering every inch of their faces.

Wearing colored robes to match their skills, Peto the water high priest, wearing a white silk type hooded robe, Sakkara the fire priest wearing red robes, Setna the air priest in blue robes and Herihor the earth priest dark brown robes.

They stand wielding staffs that support small animated crystal balls a top them displaying their respective disciplines of magic.

All at once the four step forward to begin their attack. Summoning their magic’s, words mumbled beneath their breath, their staffs held straight out and aimed at the archers high above, atop the castle towers enveloping the unsuspecting archers in flames and ice.

Setna the wind harbinger speaks and summons a large dark hand of powerful wind from the clouds above, grasping the archers bodies from their stone walkway on the tower, violently tossing them to their death's below or throwing them into the solid oak trunks of the forest.

After only an hour or so of fighting, Malus and his army victoriously arrive at the oak drawbridge to the castle.

The night still young and tainted with the sounds of the fallen deafening and desolate moans of anguish reflect the slaughter.

The king’s army is no more than a fleeting cry of pain as the wounded are outweighed by the dead and no healer is there to help ease them into the next world, they aguishly die where they lay.

Malus points his black staff at the drawbridge, with a yell “incendia”, an enormous ball of flame gathers in front of his staff darting towards the castle gate, incinerating the wooden obstacle.

Smoke and flame ridden debris is all that remains where once a sturdy drawbridge resided.

Herihor the earth harbinger lowers his staff to touch the ground before him “Pontis” he shouts, the ground rumbles beneath and in front of his feet then rises before the attacking army producing a land bridge from where they stand, over the moat circling the castle and through the empty space that once supported the drawbridge, to the innards of the helpless castle and their eventual victory inside.

It is all but over now.

Malus’s army enter the walls, killing the remaining residents without prejudice, young and old, man, woman and child alike, he has no regard for life only his twisted quench for his power and his rule and to see the resolve of his army in action.

.

Entering the great hall, a vast room of tainted windows showcasing knight and horse, soldier and sword are depicted on the windows encircling the room.

A large golden chandelier adorns the center of the room; the floors of marble are painted with the landscape of the lands, a once pristine floor now assaulted with the blood and mud of Malus and his army.

Two huge columns open to two thrones one of gold and of silver, seats where King Jyl and his wife once sat proudly.

The king, his wife and two sons the tender age of not more than ten, tremble at their side between the two thrones; awaiting Malus’s judgment.

King Jyl's trembling hand on sword points at Malus, demanding “Take me but spare my family, all shall be yours Malus”.

With a sinister laugh "All is mine once king", he tilts his head back then abruptly forward, yelling “Frendo” towards the King and his family, the air surrounding the family seems to withdraw crushing them within themselves as if their very breath is being drained out of them, as they gasp for breath, they’re inward screams tear throughout the castle walls, the screams stop as the once proud family falls to the ground.

Where once there was life now only masks of skin remain, no skeleton only the vessel which housed it, where once there were eyes now only black apertures.

The castle and surrounding lands once ruled by a just and peaceful man is now in the hands of his opposite, Malus.

Turning to the harbingers, a look of arrogance upon his face he says “leave no stone unturned, no lives shall be spared save for what woman or children remaining, send them to Seta, let this be a testament to my power, my resolve and a warning to all who oppose me.

” He turns and walks away with his head held high, his staff held in his right hand matching each step of his right foot and hitting the floor with authority, ‘Destroy it all’ he shouts. “ My black fortress shall stand where this pathetic castle once did”.

The harbingers bow their heads and chests as he walks by ‘It shall be done my lord’.

Meanwhile, a distance north of the castle in middle Pangerath and a lifetime away from the horrors of Malus, stands a wooded home nestled on the shores of Lake Windemere.

A glow emanates from within as candles flicker atop the fireplace mount.

The wooden walls stay some of the chill of night, the home of Helen Dius, a gentle woman with skin seemingly untouched by time, like un-aged porcelain, with long blonde wavy hair and eyes as blue as the skies to the north. Radiance surrounds her and all who have the pleasure to meet her feel its embrace.

She had just returned from the magical forest and a meeting between her and her sisters, a meeting of the white witches.

It is the time of mating as she waits for her chosen mate to arrive a shiver entices her to raise her hand and utter “Ignis” at the stone fireplace, engulfing the tinder and logs within.

She then sits by the fireplace in a rocking chair with a quilt of her making draped across her shoulders and chest, the flames mirrored in her eyes as she stares.

Looking towards the small window to her right she faintly hears the trot of horses in the distance getting closer; shrugging her shoulders she turns back to the fire, paying no mind as many travel by due to the proximity to the lake.

Suddenly she can see a ball of flame shoot by her window, followed by an eerie scream of pain from a man outside her door.

With a thunderous crash the door flies open and a gust of cold wind enters, followed by a man, not just any man but a towering figure with broad shoulders and skin as pale as snow, dressed in black robes, the top of his head covered with a thin red metal plate that comes to a point towards the center of his forehead, in his left hand he holds a black crystal staff and at the top lays a red glowing crystal supported by what seems to be a skeleton hand.

His eyes are black and empty as if no soul has ever resided within. She recognizes him immediately, it is Malus who is on his way north to inspect his northern borders and remove any signs of Lithuran.

He looks at her, with a subdued laugh he says “I see it is the night of mating witch, unfortunate as your mate to be is no longer interested”.

Helen bows and shakes her head in disbelief and says “Why Malus?, he has done no wrong to you, nor have I for that matter”

“Pitiful witch, you and your kind are not welcome on my lands”.

“Your lands!!” She replies in anger, “this is Lithuran lands and King Jyl knows of our rituals, you will have to answer to him for this evil”.

Nodding his head a smile forms upon his face as he raises his eyes towards her” I answer to none, especially a dead Lithuran King”.

Placing her trembling hand to mouth, her now moistened eyes display the hatred and sorrow all at once. She angrily shouts to Malus “The king is no more?, what of his wife and children”, praying that they somehow survive, fearing the truth.

Standing firm Malus places his staff in front of him looking straight and deep into Helen’s eyes

”There is NO! more Lithuran bloodline”.

Helen falls to her knees weeping and covering her face with her trembling hands.

“Now witch since your mate is not here for this sacred night, here I stand in my house on my land and whatever is on my land is mine to do with what I see fit; and I see fit to accommodate you this night”.

Helen stands to face Malus pointing her right hand index finger at his face, she hollers “You animal, you shall never have me!”

With a roar Malus yells “Ventus,” a powerful wind grabs hold and throws Helen across the room hitting the wooden wall at the other end.

Dazed and bleeding from her brow she yells back “custodia” and is instantly surrounded by a protective blue glowing field.

Smiling; Malus walks towards her with a dark grin, a snarl forms on his upper lip “Do you think your witches magic can stop my power; I have a message for you and your witch sisters, I will find your village in the forest and destroy every last witch, none are safe, this, the land and all who dwell within are my subjects to do with as I see fit, starting with you witch , be grateful; for I might let you live…. a while longer” he laughs then utters “Domito” raising his hands, slowly penetrating the force shield protecting her, grasping at her throat she is unable to move.

She gasps for air as he carries her into her bedroom and slams the door behind.

The future has taken place in the present, the seed is sewn the evil done.

Morning breaks as Malus opens the bedroom door.

Helen, weary and laying across her bed faintly hears him whisper “Ego vomica vos ut nex” her head then falls back down to the bed unconscious.

Malus continues on outside mounts his horse “we go” he says to his army awaiting him.

Turning his black armor ridden horse towards the south he and his army leave.

Days turn to weeks for Helen as she tries to forget that horrible night.

She has hidden herself from even her sister witches, not returning to the magical forest and her home, the embarrassment of what happened haunts her thoughts.

Sharp agonizing pains in her stomach and vomiting have accompanied her waking hours now.

She thinks to herself, is this evil seed alive inside me or has it to do with the words Malus spoke upon leaving.

One wet and windy bitter day her dear friend Victoria Nobal queen of the white witches stops by in search of her lost sister. A truly beautiful woman standing almost 6 foot tall with long black wavy hair, and eyes green as jade, wearing a tightly fitted white dress, emphasizing the perfect curvature of her slender body.

A large white wide brimmed witch’s hat adorns her head. This is the typical garb of the white witches but none wear the garb as well.

“You do not look well my sister, is all ok?” remarks Victoria a worried look upon her face.

“Well my queen; my friend, I am with child”.

A look of amazement surrounds Victoria’s face as she grabs Helens hand, a great smile engulfs her face “this is wonderful news sister”.

Helen then looks down in shame and relays that horrible night some moons ago and how Malus came to her.

“The child is his!” says Victoria with a look of shock. “Yes and what’s more he has cursed me as well, with ego vomica vos ut nex.” In horror Victoria looks straight into Helens eyes “The curse of death upon life, I thought such a spell was only a fairy tale to scare witches, it cannot be real. I am sure the spell did not take and was just to scare you sister..... oh sister, it mustn’t be real”.

Victoria hangs her head, un-held tears flow down her face.

In a somber voice she says “I shall stay with you until the time has come for the child to be born”.

“Thank you my Queen, my sister. I do pray the child is not cursed as well, and I pray the child does not follow in the father’s shadow” remarks Helen.

Wiping the tears from her face Victoria stands, looks at Helen and in a blissful sound of optimism says “I will look in the book of spells to see if we cannot reverse this curse set upon you if it in fact is real even, we will beat this and you will raise your child” .

Seasons come and go. Nine months, nine days and on the ninth hour the seed has finally outgrown its shell, the baby inside awaits its first breath.

The skies around the cottage have turned to black; clouds run through the air and clash with each other creating violent thunderstorms whilst stabbing the sky with bolts of lightning that light the whole of Pangerath, followed by rain as dense as the magical forest, as if the heavens cry an impending doom.

Helen lays weak and sweating in her bed pleading for the pain to stop. Her dear friend Victoria sits on a chair beside the bed trying to sooth her friend with warm cloths and reassuring words, to no avail; the pain is too great, it seems the curse is in full effect this day. For this birth there shall be a price of death, Malus has seen to that.

Hours later a push and a final scream, a boy child is born. Hardly able to hold her baby Helen looks down on him laying upon her breast, with a gentle motherly smile she utters; Tristan.

Looking down at him Victoria remarks “He has your eyes and golden hair Helen. He is.... beautiful”.

Helen turns and looks at Victoria and with a drained voice whispers “I pray all will be fine with my son, for I cannot forget the words of Malus or the curse put upon me”.

Victoria lowers her head into her hands, painfully she cries “I have looked at the book of spells and consulted the ancients and Master Heka of On Hellwyn, and there is no known reversal of the curse except by the caster himself-- “

In a tortured voice, Helen interrupts "As long as my son is safe, is all that matters, she hands Victoria her baby.

“Please promise me you will love, protect and watch over him, tell him about his mother and how much she wished she could have been with him, to love him and protect him…herself”.

Gripping the sides of the bed she raises her head in pure agony, and with her last labored breath she cries, “Please do not tell him of how he came to be, or of his father, he does not need to shoulder that burden”.

Victoria looks at Helen and gently nods in agreement as she wipes her eyes and Helen’s.

Victoria places hand to mouth, as her eyes well up, choking on tears she gasps for breath as cannot do anything to help her dear friend who lays tormented in pain.

Victoria looks up and out the window as a strange calm now resonates in the air, the storm once violent and unrelenting has finally passed, like a nomadic storm, one minute it is here, then it moves on, so it is with Helen, so full of life and joy at the birth of her child. An energy filled soul once electric and full-of-life one moment, now but an empty shell dispatching what remains of that energy in order to move on.

Victoria looks back down at her dear friend as she reaches for her last breath, sadly she is no longer.