June 20th, 1636, Rahdell, 14:05 hours
Tumbas looked around. The tunnel was dark. The only source of illumination were the glowing purple crystals in the tunnel walls. Large chunks of shiny, luminescent purple stones embedded in the dark, charcoal-coloured rocks. In the darkness, the contrast felt otherworldly.
There were other workers here. Dark elves, mostly male, from various walks of life. Youngsters and the old, walking in a line. Wearing the same white and purple garb. Any semblance of apparent civility they had was long gone, buried deep under the layer of dirt and grime smeared on them. Worn and dirty tools sat cupped in dirty, calloused hands.
It hadn’t been long since Tumbas arrived in Rahdell. A week had passed since the country boy had got off the carriage at the city’s gates. He had heard from others how the city was like. Of large castles of beautiful white stone and people living in large buildings and walkways perched up in the sky. For someone like him who had never seen a house with more than three rooms, it was dazzling.
Slowly, the dark elves walked out of the narrow shaft. The walls here were darker. Most of the magic stones had been mined here, and thus the walls were mostly dark and barren, rough to touch. There was a fair amount of chatter. Sounds of Dark elves laughing and speaking echoed off the walls as the tired miners stepped out of the mine shaft.
Eyes blinked and adjusted as the crowd stepped out. It was afternoon. Lunch time. It was necessary. The miners had been hard at work since five in the morning. A tent was set up in an open area just beside the mine pit. The smell of hot stew wafted all the way towards the mine shafts. To the elves, it was mouth-watering.
Within ten minutes, all the elves were settled in a rough queue, awaiting their turn for lunch. A handful of guards armed with spears and short swords stood by, maintaining order. Long rows of benches were laid out in the tent under the shade. By the time it was Tumbas’s turn, they were already completely filled.
Stew and bread. That was what they always got for lunch. It was nice. Nowhere as good as home cooked food. But hunger doesn’t discriminate. After picking a suitable spot near some rocks, he sat down and began munching on his humble meal.
“Why,” a voice called out, “here you are!” Tumbas looked up. A skinny dark elf approached. His silvery-blonde hair dirty and frayed. His face wore a wide grin. He still carried his pick-axe in one hand.
The elf came down and sat down beside Tumbas. “So you prefer solitude over the company of an elf? Daydreaming about her, I presume?” He nudged him. “Or perhaps there is another fair maiden who now rules these longing eyes?”
“Do you have anything else better to do? Other than pestering the first elf you see?” Tumbas gave him a look. Casual banter like this was common between them. He was the first friend he had made when he arrived in the city. For that Tumbas was grateful. He didn’t know where he would have ended up had it not been for his assistance. He called himself Testicolo. Apparently he was also another boy who had left his home village for the city.
Then there was her. A young woman. Of the many faces he saw on the first day of his arrival, her face was one of the handful ones he still remembered. A quiet, young female dark elf. Loose silver hair, draping down her sides. Heart-shaped face. She was a helper at a local inn. Unassuming, plain, common. There was no famine of beauties in the city. Yet out of all of them, she was the one he found charming.
Tumbas didn’t know her name. The anxiety was overwhelming. He was just a poor country boy who had arrived in the city. Just like the many that did everyday. How could he ever approach someone like her, he couldn’t fathom.
“Ah, on the topic of maidens,” Testicolo spoke, in between chewing noisily. “I have information worth a million gold.”
“Information worth a million gold? Sounds like the blasphemous speech of a heinous trickster.”
“What kind of criminal scum do you take me to be? These are not my words, but from an odd traveller I chanced upon once.”
“What kind of traveller says such things?”
“How would I know? He looked funny, spoke funny, felt funny. Funny indeed.” Testicolo laughed. “The chap was asking about the weirdest of things you could talk about in an inn just before dusk. I asked him his motivations, and he simply replied with ‘information is always worth millions of gold’. You hear that?” He made a sign with his fingers. “Millions of gold. Where would you even get that much gold from? I doubt there is enough gold in the whole world combined.”
“Where do you even find such kinds of people?”
Testicolo shrugged.
“And what was the ‘information worth million gold’ you were about to spill?” Tumbas urged him.
“Ah yes, that. I’ve caught wind that the madame is arriving today.”
Tumbas simply looked at him. “I would not pay you a dime for spilling such a well-known secret.”
“Come on, my brethren! Gossip is important, understand? It is not about what it is, but what it means, get that?”
Tumbas just rolled his eyes. The news of the lady of the estate arriving was already known. Lady Roshia Yinfina, the well-known wife of the duke of Rahdell, had been visiting the mine almost every other day now. The peasant miners were now starting to get used to her frequent visits, and apart from a few young elves charmed by her, there weren’t many that were excited to see her.
Virtue was the one thing she was known for throughout the country. Her kindness and forgiving nature towards the peasantry had elevated her status among the Feplarian aristocracy. Among the masses, she was almost revered as a saint. Rarely could one come across an aristocrat who would go out of their way to feed the poor and forsaken in their region and give them the sliver of warmth they could only yearn for.
For the Divine High Elves, she was then, understandably, hard to ignore. She was the wife of the man with the second largest magic stone mine in his pockets. She was well-perceived among the poor masses. A perfect combination.
Today as well, she came. She was always surrounded with guards, both dark elves as well as a handful of High Elves in their bright-looking garb. A bunch of servants walked with her, attending to her personal needs. One of them always carried an eye-catching umbrella with beautiful embroidered designs. Tumbas had heard rumours that it was gifted by the High Elves.
She was beautiful. There was no denying that. Beautiful and graceful in a way only someone of high birth could be. Tumbas didn’t have any trouble sympathising with the young elves wooed by her, who he would often hear singing about during times of rest. He was sure he too would have been one of them had he not met the elf girl in the inn before.
The visit was not very long. Lady Roshia had come to address the miners and to tell them to give their best. The miners would have to work harder, it seemed. The goals set for magic stone extraction were not being met, and an increase in the working hours had been agreed upon. There was little resistance to that idea. At least they were feeding them good food and giving them a place to sleep.
The High Elves accompanying her looked no different from before. At all times, a sour expression sat on their faces, as if being forced to chew something bitter and holding it in. They spoke sparingly, if at all. When they did, it was always directed towards the Lady or her guards or her servants. Not once did they ever directly address the miners. Perhaps they saw them as revolting, not worthy of associating with, perhaps they laughed at their lowly stature. Who knew.
The only thing the High Elves cared about was the magic stones. Extremely valuable, enough to kill and die for, in all the meanings of the word. Wars had been fought over individual mines back in the homeland during ancient times, and the stone’s value had only spiralled upwards since then. Magic stones were extremely important for any native society in this world whose denizens were capable of using magic. Raw stones, at the time of mining, are beautiful purple crystals with a touch of luminescence. After purification at the hands of alchemists, there colour changes. Red, white, blue stones could be found in markets all around the primitive parts of the world.
For the High Elves it was no less than gold. Magic stones were a key component in almost all magic technology. Whether it was keeping the airships afloat or powering the walkers, magic stones were crucial in their operation. For a country feverishly expanding its industry and military infrastructure in a race to outbuild and outgun its contemporaries doing the same, each and every magic stone mine was important. The magic stone purification and distillation pipeline was far more developed in the First World than here in Feplaria. Since magic stones could not be properly processed here, they were mined and then stockpiled in a secure location away from the Dark Elves’ eyes, where they would await collection via airships or submarines and shipped to the mainland.
There was another primary reason why the High Elves needed magic stones. Purified magic stones could be used as catalysts in opening certain kinds of seals. Particularly those shielding the relics of the ancient civilization the High Elves had been obsessed with uncovering. Previously, the High Elves would make do with magic stones shipped from outside. Two successful discoveries in quick succession, however, had changed that. Higher ups were hooked, and demanded more. The process of undoing the seals had to be sped up. More magic stones were needed, which were unfortunately not available. Thus, the High Elves had started splitting the accumulated stockpile of stones. A small fraction had now been marked for on-site consumption, purified by local alchemists in the Queen’s employ.
The problem became apparent quickly. Undoing seals used up magic stones rather quickly, and soon the High Elves found themselves running through the stockpile faster than they would have liked. Slowing magic stone consumption was not an option, and import of magic stones from the homeland had stayed stagnant and threatened to stay that way for some time to come. Naturally, the only way forward seemed to be to increase local production itself.
In the average High Elf’s mind, there had to be someone to take the blame. Someone who sat around while the ‘mature, responsible’ High Elves undertook great pains, someone who only knew how to leech off and do nothing of value. The Feplarian Dark Elves happened to be this ‘someone’.
This was not the first time working hours had been increased. The general opinion among the High Elves was that the miners were either lazy or were secretly smuggling magic stones, or both. Increase in working hours had, then, been the ‘right choice’, both to punish and to cover up for the supposed smuggling, for which there was neither any concrete evidence nor any attempt at verification. The idea of providing meals to the miners had also been opposed, and were it not for the Lady’s interference, would have left the miners starving and overworked to death.
With the Lady’s address over, the miners returned to work. The Lady was to inspect the food camps that day. She watched patiently as the miners cleared out of the tents, led into a neat queue by the guards towards the mine.
Mining was a dangerous profession, and among the many forms of mineral ore mining, magic stone extraction was considered the most hazardous. Not only because of the ever-present dangers that came with mining ores, but also because of a certain characteristic of raw, unpurified magic stones. Magic stones in their natural state, released a gas that spread very quickly. The Dark elves called it ‘purple fire’. High Elf alchemists had identified it as a special kind of complex of protein and metal ions of various kinds, often varying in composition. A lighter-than-air gas that could be compressed in an even smaller volume than helium or hydrogen and a very important industrial product manufactured from magic stones, it was the prime reason airships stayed afloat in air instead of falling down. Although it could be synthesized using raw magic stones as well, purified magic stones gave better results.
There were caveats, though. The gas was extremely inflammable, and easily caught fire. Because of how quickly it spread, in case of a leak even a tiny spark was enough to turn the whole container into a powerful fuel-air explosive. It’s high calorific value only made things worse: catastrophic accidents due to such leakages were not uncommon in the First World.
The gas also reacted to magic. While it was a quality that made it useful in the form of different kinds of magic-based ammunition and explosives, it became a serious hazard during mining. Miners who had magic-related illnesses were prohibited from working in mines until they had recovered completely. The gas’s reaction to magic was violent, to say the least. Just like fire, a small magic spark in a room full of the gas would transform said room into bits of stone and concrete no bigger than an elf’s fist. While such conditions were not common, it was not the same for the mines. Essentially, they were just giant canisters of the ‘purple fire’, waiting to be ignited.
Rahdell was a curious place. It had been founded primarily as a mining city, and now was the most important one in the entire country. Not because of the size of the individual mines themselves, but because of how many there were. There were large, open pit coal mines, iron ore mines, copper ore mines, and of course, the second largest magic stone mine in the country. Most of the resources were exported to the High Elves at laughably low prices, but nonetheless a sufficient share was always available for feeding Feplaria itself.
Magic stone mines had a key characteristic. They were usually found near large coal or oil deposits. Smaller mines were accompanied by large areas containing fossils. The fossils were of beasts that resembled the giant land dragons used by the Feplarian armies, but only in basic appearance. They were larger, and many had what were surmised to be leathery wings that had stayed surprisingly unaffected from decay. Most had some sort of broken carapace, which often had large traces of iron in them. There was still research going on in the First World as to the true nature of these beasts.
This particular magic stone mine was sitting atop a layer of coal about a kilometre deep. Because of how deep the layer was situated, it had never been discovered. Decades of mining, however, had changed that. One mine shaft was now close to the coal layer.
A dark elf miner was hard at work, heaving the pickaxe as he prepared to hit the rock again. However, before he could, a rock fell from the ceiling, bringing with it dust and small stones. The poor miner was old, tired, and could not get out of the way in time. The rock hit him in the head, and with a cry he crumbled to the hard, rocky ground.
Other miners at the scene rushed to his aid. Someone dropped his tool and ran outside for help. As the miners tried to help the elf, some of them noticed the black material sticking out of the wall that looked different from the rock around it. Somebody else decided to report this, and began walking out.
Meanwhile, the poor old elf was on the ground, conscious. He knew something bad had transpired, and he was aware that he was injured. But he was dazed, and while he couldn’t think clearly, his body did. He had been in the Army before, and had been trained on what to do in case of injuries. That is, to use the one tool that was available to every Dark elf: magic.
The elf raised a wobbling finger, and started conjuring healing magic. The magic in his body reacted immediately with the air, which was now heavily laden to the point of choking.
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The pressure skyrocketed. So did the temperature. The entire mass of air in the shaft combusted all at once. Nothing remained of the seven or so Dark elves in that part of the shaft. The shockwave of the explosion reverberated throughout the ground.
Tumbas was busy mining when the tremor hit him. The ground shook. A muffled explosion jolted him out of his daydreams of that girl. Other miners looked around, stunned and confused.
Another tremor. This time, it was constant, and lasted for a moment. Tumbas could now just make out shouts and cries of people rising outside.
Before he could set a foot forward, however, something happened. An earthquake. Or sort of. The ground started shaking. Violently. Rocks and pebbles began falling down from the ceiling. Cries arose, this time from inside the shaft.
The mine shaft was collapsing. A sense of dread and paralysing fear gripped him. Summoning all his strength, he began running.
Elves came running from deep inside the shaft. Some battered, some bloodied. None had their tools in their hands. Sweat mixed with blood as the miners raced to the opening.
The shaking intensified. All of a sudden, it was now louder, far more intense. Booming thunder resounded from beneath their feet as one by one, the gas-filled mine shafts began cooking off due to the uncontained fires, sending tremors travelling through the body of each elf. Their hearts could directly hear the booms, and in between the rhythmic explosions, only feel dread and fear.
The mine shaft began collapsing. It began at the very end. Tumbling and crumbling rocks, caving in. Then the crumbling travelled outwards. Locked in a race to death against the miners. To see who would win, death or Dark elf. Right now, it seemed like a draw.
Then Tumbas stumbled. Losing his footing, he almost got crushed under the mass of panicking elves and dark rocks. Nonetheless, he kept moving. He knew how dangerous magic stones were. Just like the ‘purple fire’, they were combustible. If he got left behind and trapped, he would be lucky if he died immediately and painlessly, at best.
A cave-in. The beam of light streaming from outside dimmed as rocks fell beside the entrance. The elves were now slowed down to a crawl. Screams and cries reverberated throughout the shaft, drowned out completely by the muffled explosions. Some died immediately, having had their necks and heads crushed by rocks. Other had their limbs or spines broken by large rocks. It was chaos. The mass of elves trying to push through an entrance that was becoming smaller every passing moment, all the while being bombarded by large rocks.
Tumbas pushed himself. One last push, he said. His arms and legs felt sore. His ears rung from the constant cacophony of noises. His mind drifted to the image of the girl at the inn. Oh, how he would have loved to see her again. Maybe, he thought, he could have asked her out that day. The pain in his heart was greater than the pain his body felt. Tumbas knew he was hurt, but didn’t know- and didn’t have the time to know- where.
Summoning all his strength, he pushed on one last time. The scenery changed. He breathed in a fresh lungful of air. Suddenly he was shoved and pushed out in the open as other elves streamed out behind him.
He was alive. Breathing. Not dead. Not buried under the rocks. Not burned to death. He pulled himself to his feet, his legs wobbling. Dark elves ran around him, shoving him aside. Occasionally he would stumble to the ground again, then pull himself up again. He didn’t know where he was going, or why. Adrenaline coursed in his veins. He felt blind, even though he knew he wasn’t. In his minds were the words ‘Away’. Where this ‘away’ was, he didn’t know. He just wanted to go as far away as he could.
Tumbas finally tumbled down. His mind cleared. Adrenaline receded. A sudden throbbing pain rose from his right leg. There was something warm and moist on his leg. He looked down. Blood. It wasn’t a serious wound. At the very least, his leg didn’t seem bent in any wrong direction. He could still move it just fine.
The sight made him jolt back to his senses. He felt fear. Dread. Once again. The cover of adrenaline was no longer. His fingers began to shake. He was starting to panic. The pain suddenly seemed a lot more intense and unbearable.
The rumbling had intensified. All around he could hear the screams of Dark elves as they scrambled for their lives. Their screams mingled into each other, and he couldn’t make out anything. For Tumbas, it was just a mushy cacophony of noises, indistinguishable and unrecognizable.
Most were running away from the scene. A few brave and desperate ones were running back, to try and rescue their friends or kin. The ground seemed to groan and shake. He could feel the repeated thump of the underground explosions as their shockwaves travelled through the ground, and shook the hearts of every soul on the site.
If someone were to ask Tumbas whether he was a religious elf or not, he would think of his father and mother, and with a youthful expression on his face, reply that he was not. Yet, lying against the rock with blood pouring out of his leg, Tumbas felt like hitting himself with all the force he could muster. He felt as if the deities themselves were laughing at his foolishness, standing proud as they flaunted their supremacy over the puny mortals that roamed the land like insects; insects whose fate it was to be trampled under the foot of the superior being. Right now, Tumbas felt powerless, and small.
A group of Dark elves ran past him. A few of them stopped as they spotted him. Running towards him, they crouched down. They spoke, but Tumbas couldn’t speak anything. His mind felt scattered, too fuzzy and panicked to make out anything being spoken to him. They were speaking loudly, trying to get the Dark elf to his senses.
Behind the elves, Tumbas could see the mine shaft collapse. Clouds of black and purple dust rose as the earth began giving away, engulfing a large group of Dark elves trapped inside it. Occasionally, the curtain of dust would give away, revealing Dark elves streaking away from the mine. Dirty. Bruised. Battered. Bloodied. Screaming. Panicked.
The elves speaking to Tumbas suddenly turned, facing something else. Tumbas didn’t. He had been reduced to a very drunken spectator watching a blurry and tragic play unfold in front of his eyes, while his body, paralysed by a horrible and deafening cacophony of a million different sounds and a billion different thoughts, could do nothing. Fear, dread, alarm, panic, confusion, the sight of his bleeding leg, the sight of those dead and injured elves. The sound of the hungry and vengeful earth, the powerful and chilling tremors. The screams and the cries.
Tumbas saw the elves confer with the mysterious subject behind him. Then the elves moved, and Tumbas saw who the mysterious subject was. It was Lady Roshia. She had a tense expression on her face. Halfway between grim determination and horror. A weird thing, Tumbas thought to himself. The high-born lady was strong, he heard himself think. He could see her hands. They weren’t shaking. She wasn’t making any movement that suggested she was overwhelmed by the situation at all.
Lady Roshia turned to face Tumbas. He could see her expression soften a little. A mix of visible sympathy and pity. She commanded something to her servants and the Dark elves. The servants, who had up until now remained only mildly perturbed, suddenly started stammering and making a ruckus. The dark elves, on the other hand, bowed immediately and set off with her.
Tumbas saw her move. Her stride seemed so full of determination. The other elves followed behind. Lady Roshia walked a few feet ahead, then raised her arms in front of her. The other elves followed.
Tumbas could see magic flowing out of their hands. The dust seemed to clear slightly. He could hear the elves shouting as they poured all their magic into whatever the Lady was doing.
The mass of elves streaming from the mines grew suddenly bigger. The earth seemed to stop collapsing momentarily. Tumbas could hear a cheer. From where, he couldn’t tell, but he knew it came from the dark elves. The miners were cheering Lady Roshia as she poured her magic, gritting her teeth as every able elf came to join her. Soon there was a line of Dark elves surrounding her. It seemed as if the gods had been defeated for a moment.
An explosion. A thunder. It was powerful. The ground roared. The ground shook. Lady Roshia was knocked back, along with many elves. Chaos followed.
More explosions followed. Tumbas saw as the elves dragged away an unconscious and bleeding Lady Roshia, along with her servants. Behind them, the earth erupted.
Large balls of purple flames screamed towards the sky as the entire mine collapsed in on itself. The excessive mining had already weakened the ground far too much, and the heat and the shockwave of the explosions finally took its toll. Till now, high-pressure pockets of the ‘purple fire’ had formed inside the mines that had remained untouched by the fires as the rocks collapsed and trapped the gasses inside. As the mine collapsed, the sudden increase in pressure set them off, which further set off the magic stones as well as the coal deposits below.
Everything went briefly black as a giant explosion took place, sending rocks and debris for miles in every direction. Rising above the column of smoke was a massive tower of bright purple flames. The purple flames roared and bellowed as their colour changed, as the coal deposits began cooking off. Now, there were two flames, dancing in the sky. Bright purple, bright orange. Dancing their fiery dance of death and destruction amidst a sky full of debris and echoing agony.
A large rock landed on Tumbas’s hand, crushing it. He screamed. It was hot. It felt as if his skin was being pierced by a thousand red-hot needles. A hail of small stones and rocks assaulted him. Parts of elf meat hit him, like moist pillows being thrown at him at the pace of a sprinting land dragon. His vision was now darker and blurred.
As the smoke subsided, he saw finally. Just before passing out due to the shock. A sight that would be burned in his memory for ages to come. In place of the mine, there was now an abyss. Rising from that abyss were towers of flames, purple and yellow. The edge of the abyss was littered with crushed and mutilated elf body parts. He could see faces of dead elves. The horror frozen on their faces, their mouths agape in inconceivable terror. Some were only vaguely recognizable, having been crushed, then spit out from under the earth as it erupted in rage.
As Tumbas lost consciousness, he had a thought. He had finally seen what hell looked like. He wished he would wake up to see her again.
June 22nd, 1636, Feplan, Feplaria, 11: 20 A.M.
The street was bustling with Dark elves. The roads were jammed. There was not enough space anywhere to comfortably put down one’s foot. Everywhere was occupied. The overhanging balconies over the roads to the balconies of the individual buildings, all filled with Dark elves of all kinds.
Many didn’t know what was happening. They were simply curious, eager to know why such a large crowd had gathered outside. Amidst the cacophony of the noise, information was shared. The ignorant had their curiosity satiated, the quench for ‘knowledge’ about the latest events calmed down by the steady dose of heavily-mutilated gossip passed down from other equally clueless townspeople. Conjectures and hypotheses were conjured, and were lost in the humid wind blowing down the road.
Word of the tragedy in Rahdell was still flowing around. It had been two whole days since then. By now, the news was on everyone’s lips. One could walk into an inn or an alehouse and not have a single conversation where it would not be mentioned, even if in passing. Many Dark elves had perished in the disaster, but more importantly the Lady Roshia Yinfina had been hurt grievously. That had been the hot topic every conversation was intoxicated with. One of the most illustrious and popular figures in Feplarian aristocracy had been touched by harm.
One of the most popular ladies in the country did not get her reputation for nothing. There was a fairly long list of those that admired her despite her being married. This included other aristocrats as well. They were the first to react. Most expressed their ‘heartfelt remorse’ and ‘sympathy’ for the Lady’s loved ones. Others had announced they would find the ‘wretched criminal’ responsible for causing the tragedy and punish him for conspiring to hurt the ‘ever-sweet and innocent’ Lady Roshia. Others had chosen to simply stay silent.
So when the news came that Arc Mage Onas was going to make an announcement regarding the matter, it was no surprise then that everyone rushed to hear him. All the roads leading to the Royal Mausoleum were clogged with elves eager to hear the Arc Mage’s address.
The mausoleum consisted of an open, elevated platform in the middle, with places for the spectators to sit in the inclined steps that ascended up as one went outside. The lower seats were reserved for the working class: the business-elves, the business owners, the wealthy commoners. The upper seats were reserved exclusively for the aristocracy. There was no place for the common peasant.
The chatter subsided as the Arc Mage slowly stepped on to the platform. The entire stage area had magic applied to it, which had the effect of amplifying by many times any sound inside it, then having it echo all around the mausoleum so that everyone could hear the speaker clearly.
The Arc Mage was known to wear a smile on his face all the time, and like the illustrious Lady Roshia, he too had a reputation of being likable as well. His jovial nature could lighten anyone’s mood, and his kindness could lighten the hearts of even those trapped deep in the pits of grief. Yet, right now a frown sat on his face, his brows wrinkled.
The departure from his usual demeanour did not go unnoticed. Already there were hushed murmurs about this change, which quietened down as the Arc Mage cleared his throat to speak.
“Faithful citizens of Feplaria! I am the Arc Mage of the Royal Court, Onas Yllaralei!”
The crowd listened in silence as the Arc Mage’s booming voice echoed throughout the mausoleum. He continued.
“Today, we grieve! We grieve the innocent! The fallen! The unfortunate! The ones unworthy of the cruel toll forced upon them! Today we grieve Rahdell !”
Arc Mage Onas spoke as he walked around the stage, leaning on his staff. Despite how loud his voice sounded, he was actually not shouting.
“Our fellow countrymen perished in the most hellish conditions we could conjure in our minds! Screaming! Bloodied! Crushed! Burned! Hundreds of them! Hundreds of innocent souls extinguished for no fault of their own!”
The crowd was completely silent. Most were shocked by the change in the Arc Mage. Nobody had ever seen him act with such strictness before. Many heads hung low in dejection.
“We must ask ourselves: Why? Why did our countrymen have to suffer? Why did they have to die? Why?”
Heads turned up, gazing questioningly at the Arc Mage. What was he on about, nobody knew. Everybody had accepted the tragedy as an unfortunate accident already. That it was normal and that nothing could be done about it. It was safe to say that many did not like where the Arc Mage’s speech was going.
“I tell you, my beloved countrymen, I tell you! The devils behind this heinous tragedy have always been among us, all this time! Fooling us, conspiring behind our backs, sacrificing us for their heinous aspirations!”
Arc Mage Onas paused. The crowd was silent, waiting with bated breath. It was now clear to even the dullest that the Arc Mage was here for blood; that somebody would have their heads rolling very soon. Some of the aristocrats started praying in silence.
“It is the High Elves!”
For a moment, the crowd stayed silent, not registering what the Arc Mage had just said. Then, as the words started registering in their minds, their mouths began to open to spout words of incredulousness, but the Arc Mage was already speaking.
“I tell you, my fellow countrymen, it is the High Elves! The ones that have been masquerading as gods and angels, the ones that have been fooling us all this time!”
Disbelief erupted in the audience. They were distraught; they could not believe what the Arc Mage had just spoken. While a large majority of the country didn’t worship the High Elves with fervour, a few did. A sizable fraction of those few were present in the audience, and they were already shouting curses at the Arc Mage, forgetting his position in their blind rage.
The Arc Mage, unperturbed, continued nevertheless.
“These lowly bastards have been fooling you and your beloved kin all this time! They talk of virtue and charity, yet they are no saints!”
Onas’s voice seemed at once several times louder and more imposing than it did before. It snapped people out of their thoughts and shook the fervent worshippers out of their rage: there was still the Arc Mage standing in front of them.
“All this time, they have been lying! Lying! Stealing! Plundering! All in the name of divinity! They do so that they may feed their own starving countrymen! They are no gods or angels! Do not be fooled, they hate us! You and me, they hate us all! They plunder with swords masked as sweet words and false dreams of heavens, yet they will jump at the slightest opportunity to do us harm!”
Arc Mage Onas’s words were now having their effect. Even the more fervent ones were now stupefied, confused. The others were already starting to agree with the Arc Mage. His sentiment of the High Elves hating the Dark elves was not unique; indeed many people harboured such an opinion. Neither was it a new thing. Just one of the many widely-acknowledged but publicly-denied opinions that circulated in society.
“They say they are messengers from the heavens above! They offer us their ‘gifts’- all those objects of wonder which we all know, the ones that made our Navy and our Armies so powerful! Yet, my brethren, do not be fooled- these are but mere toys! Cheap imitations of the truly divine that they, in their conceit, believe will be sufficient to keep us occupied! All the while they are given free reign to loot our land!”
The mausoleum was silent, but nods of agreement were slowly occurring. People were starting to understand the Arc Mage to some degree.
“My brethren! You are aware that once, in times long gone, there walked on our land a race of men that changed the course of history! Men of great valour and endless kindness! Men who taught us how to live, how to fight, how to stand up to the unforgiving world! Men of far greater potential than anything these wretched thieves could strive to be! The High Elves know this! They know they shall forever be insects in front of them! And thus, they defile! They defile their legacies! They defile their monuments! They do, so that they may take what they could never have, and throw mud at it! Then they make cheap imitations of them, and fool us today as they hurriedly fill their pockets with whatever they can get their ugly hands on!”
The Arc Mage was now shouting. His voice carried emotion and impact. His expression was sombre, his tone grave, angry. The crowd of elves had been touched. Confusion was now replaced with silent rage.
“In their spite and foolishness, they defile the very sanctuaries we hold dear! The ones we tucked neatly in places out of reach as a lasting memory of those that came before! The ones that we sealed from the corrosive grip of time itself through the sacrifice of many! And now, thieves strive to defile and destroy them! They want to destroy all of it! Because they simply cannot stand it! Their greed and spite is bottomless! They have all of this nation’s magic stone mines for them! All so that they can undo those seals and continue their despicable stealing! Yet they remained unsatiated! Unsatiated and agitated! Agitated that the golden hen was not producing golden eggs fast enough.”
Arc Mage paused. The elves were now sufficiently agitated. Many were shouting and raising slogans to remove the High Elves. The aristocrats simply looked on with a grave expression. He took a deep breath, then continued.
“And thus, they decided it fit to bring down the axe on their golden hen! They betrayed our countrymen! Our people! They killed them all! In their greed, in their spite, in their petty hatred! They are the ones solely responsible for the tragedy in Rahdell!”