THE BEGINNING

Long ago, the world was populated by the mortal races, but ruled by the gods.

The chief gods, who were the Father and Mother of all, first sculpted the world and gave it form. They filled it with life and with wonder, with light and with dark, and from their union they begat the other gods. Each of these gods gifted unto the world more life and more wonder, until the emptiness that once comprised creation was gone forevermore, and in its place stood All.

The mortal races looked up to the gods, and their hearts were filled with devotion and gratitude. They worshipped the gods and sought their blessings. But there were some among the mortal races who were filled with discontent. They looked to the gods with envy, and they sought to steal divine power for themselves.

These jealous mortals raised up armies and marched to conquer All. They elevated themselves in the eyes of their followers to a station above godhood, and they demanded worship and devotion in kind. Soon, their armies spread all across the mortal realm of Halorath, and all was plunged into the flames of war.

The gods looked upon these blasphemers with rage. They sent calamity and storm, and dashed these envious mortals to pieces. None were spared from the gods’ wrath, and when at last they were sated in their vengeance, they found themselves looking down upon a broken world.

With Halorath nearly destroyed, the pieces of All began to fragment. The realms of mortal and divine drifted apart, and the gods turned upon themselves. Each blamed the others for this destruction, and soon the gods waged war upon one another in the heavens. All the while, in Halorath below, the mortals who had survived the tempest swore their allegiances to different gods, and their battles echoed those of the divine realm.

Thus the gods began to die.

In the end, there were only two who remained. These two were twin sisters: Elyran, called the Bright Queen and the Daybringer, and Veshara, called Mother Night and the Sister of Shadow. They were the goddesses of day and night, of light and dark, and when they at last faced one another, both found that they had grown weary of combat, tired of the endless battles, and neither could bring herself to strike down the other.

Thus, the Twin Goddesses declared their familial love, and peace at last returned to All.

Eons have passed since then, and still the Twin Goddesses reign. And though the mortal races still declare allegiance, still devote themselves to one goddess or the other, they no longer wage war in the name of their deity.

But folly is in the nature of both gods and mortals, and what is above is mirrored in what is below, and what is below is mirrored in what is above. Light and dark are complements and they are contrasts. They are forever at odds.

Peace, therefore, cannot last.

One day, Halorath shall face calamity once more.

GARBAN AND DORVO, PART 1

If Dorvo had to choose but one thing he despised about the Vynte Marches above all else, it would be the warmth. It was not enough that the sun was hot—oh no. It had to be hot while the hair was wet as well. “Humidity,” the locals called it, and how he hated it. How anyone he could live out their whole life in a place like this, he could not fathom.

Dorvo scratched at his blond goatee and considered, for perhaps the first time in his young life, shaving it. But all it took was a single glance at his traveling companion to discard that nation. If Garban could weather this awful climate with that dark and tangled mess of a beard, then Dorvo could surely handle a little bit of discomfort about his chin.

The dwarf in question looked over at Dorvo, grinning beneath that thick mat of facial hair. “Are ye used to riding that beast yet, lad?” he asked.

The young human could not help but roll his eyes. “We did have horses at my estate,” he said. “I rode them more often than I rode your dwarven bugs. What about you, my friend? Surely that saddle cannot be too comfortable with those tiny legs.”

In response, Garban simply threw back his head and laughed. “I have been riding all manner of steeds since you were a babe. Don’t worry about me, Goldcrest.”

The horse Dorvo rode—a brown and white mare with an easy temperament that was known as Ariel—snorted, as though she understood the older adventurer and thought that he was full of it. Dorvo patted her neck.

“At the very least, we aren’t riding those vile dogs we saw at Dralif Cor,” he noted.

“What, the barghest?” asked Garban, a big grin on his face. “You should be so lucky. Those hounds run faster than any horse, and they possess just enough innate Shadow Magic that their feet can slip through bits of shade beneath them, ensuring a smooth ride in even the roughest terrain.”

Dorvo’s eyes widened. “Truly?” he asked. “Those beasts?”

Garban nodded. “There are few steeds finer.”

“Then why aren’t we riding those?”

“Oh, well, there’s a simple answer to that,” Garban said with a shrug. “They would kill us. The goblins raise barghest alongside their riders, so that the two are bonded. Anyone fool enough to ride a barghest he is not bonded to will soon end up the hound’s lunch.”

“I… see.” Dorvo shuddered at the thought. There was at least some relief in knowing that he would likely never have to ride one of those creatures. The barghest he had encountered on the streets of Dralif Cor had been ill-tempered and odious beasts, covered in bristly black fur and with eyes that shone with crimson menace. Their presence as steeds among the guards there was just one of many reasons that Dorvo was glad to be away from the goblin city.

Though that did not mean that they were yet out of the goblins’ territory. If Dorvo forgot that fact, then all he would need to do was remind himself of the name of the woodland they rode through—the Forest of Goblins—and he would recall in an instant what race lay claim to this land.

Yet in spite of the name, Dorvo had yet to see a single goblin out in this forest. He’d hardly even seen anything goblinesque, in fact. It was a deciduous forest, not so different from what he was used to back home in Salok—aside from that treacherous sun beating down on him from between the trees and boiling the moisture in the air.

Their horses trod upon a dirt path, surrounded by trees on all sides. Moss-covered bark reach up to the sky, splitting off into a dense canopy of branches bathed in green leaves. Grass grew wild and uncut between the trees’ roots, and wildflowers sprouted about the bushes and ferns, dotting the sea of green in splashes of reds and oranges and blues. The scents of dirt and of sap hung thick in the humid air, and somewhere beyond the rustling of flora in the breeze, Dorvo could hear the songs of birds and the buzzing of insects.

It was a forest, like any other, and that comforted Dorvo. He knew forests. He knew them better than he did goblins and barghest and so-called “free citied.” This, at the very least, was something familiar. It was something that made sense.

“How long are we to remain in the Vynte Marches, again?” Dorvo asked. He dreaded their return to Dralif Cor and its alien goblin architecture.

“We will stay until you have some much-needed experience under your belt,” said Garban. “If you want to make it as an adventurer, then there are few places better than Vynte to get started. Oh, and try to get used to calling it just ‘Vynte’ or ‘the Free Cities.’ ‘March’ is a Tersi term, and the locals are not particularly fond of it.”

“Fine, fine,” Dorvo muttered. He would love to be back in Tersen, but Garban had a point. Dorvo had left home with dreams of an adventurer’s life, but the Guild was on the decline in the Republic. Vynte was a far better place to ply this particular trade.

“Now look sharp,” Garban told him. “We are nearly there.”

“How can you tell?”

The dwarf responded by pointing to a shrub that Dorvo’s eyes had glossed over. What little leaves were left on it had been singed black, and a trail of ash led from the remains deeper into the forest, dotted by more burned plants.

“We continue on foot,” said Garban. “We’ll hitch the horses to that tree over there.”

Dovo nodded and dismounted. A shiver of anxiousness ran through him as he considered what was about to happen. They’d been contracted to remove a nest of potentially dangerous creatures before their population could grow into a threat, and it seemed that this nest was closer than Dorvo had imagined.

Once the horses had been tied, the pair moved through the trees. Dorvo, lightly armored, moved with quick and dextrous steps between the bushes and roots of the wild woodland. Garbam however, wore iron armor of dwarven design: plates fashioned in imitation of an insect’s carapace. Before dismounting his own steed, the dwarf had retrieved his helmet from his saddlebag and donned it, and now his face was flanked on either side by pincer-like horns that were reminiscent of the jaws of a stag beetle.

Garban made quite a lot of noise trudging through the undergrowth. Dorvo had assumed that some degree of stealth would be required, but it was apparent that the more seasoned adventurer thought such precautions were unnecessary.

Soon enough, the trail of ash and burnt leaves led to a clearing. The grass here had been burned away, and only ashes remained. Dorvo stepped into the clearing and looked around, wondering where the trail might pick up.

“We’re here,” Garban said, hefting his hammer and raising his shield.

“What?” asked Dorvo. There was nothing alive here. All he saw was ash and dead things.

“Your sword, lad!” Garban barked. “Draw that sword and be ready!”

Fumbling slightly, Dorvo did so… just as the ash exploded from the ground all around him, and the bloodthirsty salamanders emerged.