[CW] In a nonfiction essay style, write about the history of a VERY strange and fantastical place.
...
Record of Zahra's Final ledger, found upon his desk unsealed: Bound and sealed by Royal and Holy Decree for none but the Highest of rank. The summary of which falls under protection of the Bishops, bound by seal of highest blinding faith.
Closed to the ledgers of the Order of Scribes, reference of these passages are not to be repeated under punishment of greatest magnitude. Only in the Memory and respect of Zahra himself are they not burned at the moment of this inscription.
-Order of the Bishops, High Church of Doterra
----------------------------------------
From the Book of faith, it has been said among the legends of that Doterra formed in the wreckage of the Great Western Wars, herded masses of refugees fleeing the destruction brought about by the primal races of Orcs and Goblins. The stories speak clearly of an unnamed chosen soul among one of those lost and desperate people who reached for the sun, praying to the gods above for justice and solitude. As such, the hymns will sing in their beautiful choruses through our voices of how this single life and was smiled upon by god, and with a single raise of their hands emboldened by the powers of light: The Great walls sprouted from nothing but earth and stone, holding back the monsters which hunted them before the almighty power of faith.
Those histories, for whatever heresy one might accuse myself as I write this text, are lacking in many ways. Most of which, I regret to state, lie quietly beside the grave of truth like a hound unwilling to leave his master. In this place our ancestors have set down a pleasant lie, a peaceful concept for those with nothing else to cling to and find a simple form of happiness. A lie of power we now call faith.
But a powerful and pleasant lie is still a lie, and I shall call it such regardless of the claims to what hatred and damnation it brings me.
For all the magic we have placed within their portions, no blessing of god rose those barriers of stone, and no power of light prevented mankind from complete destruction. We were not simply chased by the vile races of creatures feared, but also by the also destructive forces of man and magics; the likes of which harried us away from those distant homelands of our ancestors.
Of the Holy Church and its records (of which there are many to be seen only be certain eyes) I can report my experience in its entirety upon years of reflection and compromises. I can speak the truth as I see it, impartial to the wishings and wantings of mortal men who clamor loudly for silence. Through my impartial lenses of glass, I have seen much that troubles me, and more that will trouble those to come after I have gone.
Where some of our records here are truthful, some many others are blatantly written over by the victors of past generations, or worse: Stretched in compromises of power-struggles and backroom discussion never recorded. The history we possess as a whole, even when laid out chronological in its order and defined reliable, is noted and acknowledged to be incomplete. Of its beginnings, even for one who has read through more than any other might dare attempt, I can only truly confirm that there were many Kingdoms in place before the first stone of our most Holy of Cities was laid down upon its foundations, and they were placed by man- not god.
As a preface to the details of our lost and rewritten histories, I will lay one claim of assumption that lets me rest at night. A guess that perhaps in the far off and distant past before recorded history, there may have been peace. A true peace, lasting and immortal as the Ancient Dragons that may still slumber beneath the soil, or the first of the elves who danced with the forests and the brooks of stone. As a scholar, I have seen no proof of this, but the concept comforts me, so I will state it as a point of beginning.
Once there was peace. After there was war.
Of war, unlike its companion: We have proof.
It is recorded even in our first records of burnt and crumbled pages held together by magics of white, that thousands of years before Doterra came to be, the whole continent was at war with itself. Not simply the Eastern portion we now hide away, framed in with a thick wall of stone and blessings to repel what evil lies west: Instead the entire continent. Both East and West alike, and all at war, and all suffering alike.
Villages, towns, Kingdoms, borders of loose and generational lines brutally folding down upon one another with savagery that beast could not hope to match. The Horrors of many were many and vile, and sin ran freely through the streets, fields, and forests of our world.
It is recorded in this Era of which only few things are known, the Elves already abandoned most men for quieter Keeps and the Great Immortal beasts had done the same. Men had enslaved Dwarves, slain the seafolk, and taken prisoner what few Elves still foolish enough to lay their trust in men. It is said that the Dark Elves were bred in this time, not half-lings as some claim, but very much tainted by the hatred and violence of the mortals who held them. For all their love, they could become as cruel as us, as wicked as man.
Of that final race, the lore still runs deep. For those servants, many in the present day still whisper late-night tales to terrify their children into more docile compliance of a parent's wishes: Words of those tragic slaves to the present known Lord of the West. In more factual records, we have only ledgers along the midlands, stating the last of the Dark Elves was slain in combat two hundred years prior to this day of writing. What remains of them in the West is not known for certain, only presumed.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
These violent stories of which we scare our children, though, some only known to the present day man as distant songs and folklore, each hold roots deeper than many would realize. For the bard's song upon the village hearth, I have found no few pages preserved among the Great Library that speak of this distant time. I tell you with no shortage of sadness that our rivers once truly did run red with blood, and the lands towards the south known for their iron content in soil may not have come about as naturally as we might hope.
I have many records of youth and women sold for slaves to roaming armies with no loyalty but themselves. I have many records of people and cultures lost due to betrayals and greed. The pages even speak of Kingdoms holding by the barest threads in these times, ancient dynasties unable to bring trust to one another. It seemed that for the goal of creating one alliance, others may have seen as a truce for bloody ends towards another neighbor. Anyone with a few sacks of gold might entice the roving bands of Mercenaries to strike at the weakest among them, forcing a never-ending stand-off of attrition as portions were chewed upon by bandits and vagrants. Instead of making peace, the nations of this time held frosty glares and habitually killed messengers at their gates, unwilling to extend offerings of progress.
But in this era of tragic history, a hope did show itself. More referenced than truly documented by official ledgers or books, The Great Merlin of the Blue Cloak, Caster of Virtue, and Voice of Dragons appeared like a gust of wild magic. Through actions told in legends and song alike (many added and adapted among the Church's tales of virtue and faith) his unparalleled strength united many rival Kingdoms, forcing peace to lands where people had forgotten such a thing existed.
It is written that his voice called out to the Elves and the Ancient Drakes, and the Foundations of history formed beneath his gentle touch. That the Noble races formed under his guidance together in peace, solidifying a prosperous time that lasted hundreds of years as the continent slowly fell beneath the growing alliance's influence. It was this period of mankind's history upon the world where our literature expands, and we find details among the wreckage. There are full books, biographies and fables that reference details and events not found outside of their context, but align well with our over-arching understandings of history.
As I have read through countless volumes in my many years of servitude, I have found that many tell the same stories in portioned variations. Where there is truth, there is falsehood, and where there is fact, there is often embellishment. History, therefore is a slippery and illusive thing of details and occurrences which we might find proof of, but not cause.
Of most importance: It is known that Merlin ceased to be.
In death, though more likely treachery which lead to it, the direct cause is accredited to the man's most powerful disciple: A man recorded and holding to the name throughout literature as Gillian- though nothing more, and nothing less for many decades after. It was only after years of chaos and confusion among the ledgers and the scribes that the events fall into place, and the Gillian of history morphs towards another form in our minds. One many might find themselves as familiar with as the horrid children's tales of Dark Elves.
With Merlin's sudden absence, a long and confusing war began. The causes were many in its first fledgling phrases: A loss of communication and trust among the Magics Merlin once set in place between the many people of the world. Attacks from outside creatures of Orcs and Goblin hordes, as well as Resources shortening due to adjusting weather patterns recorded as deeply unnatural. There were sudden battles with unidentified foes, and a growing army of plight that seemed impossible to truly destroy. These battles lead to a never-ending advance upon fortress after fortress in the West heading East, and eventually lead to the epic of the greatest ballads and tragedies we respect as distant art in the present dates.
As battle after battle was lost to another rising danger in the far South-West of the Goblin and Orcish hordes, Kingdoms once again lost their trust, united now only by fear of a greater evil than one another, and those fleeing the violence were set upon by those who had the freedom to do so. The strong took advantage of the weak, just as ancient times.
There are names in history once beloved, known now with fear: The Great Hero Rodrick for example, A man now known as the Blackened Knight. The Noble Elves and the Dark Elves, now all dead and betrayed, enslaved, or scattered across the lands. The Armies of glory: Dragon Riders of the Northern Tribes, Berserkers of the Desert Sands, the Bands of the Mighty Falcon, and the Priests of the Illuminated Lord. All of these are now known as the undead horde, servants to the Dark Lord.
Even the Great immortal beasts were slain during this time, those few with the blessing of foresight hiding themselves for another many turnings of the world until conditions might favor their return.
It is from this broken and ruined legacy that our country truly found its form: The breaking of those united armies was the flight which gave Marrow in our bones. Our lives persist of Merlin's Guidance beneath the light of whatever justice brought him into being, and the same hold us up far more than our Faith in the Divine providence. The foundation that holds our Great walls from being thrown asunder by the many enemies at our gates is not simply faith and god: Our people were those lucky enough to flee before the violence reached its climax, and our cities hold refuge only because of countless sacrifices and fallen heroes.
If anything, Doterra is a land of many cowards and desperate who set themselves down without a single place left to run but the depths of an Eastern Ocean or whatever lands lay beyond their massive expanses. We have built, and rebuilt. Hardened and affirmed ourselves with delusions. Our unbreakable walls trusted to purely by the people who live beside them in ignorance, have in truth been broken and repaired many times. Our magics of white glory hold little but a candle's flame to the ancient rituals that were once known to us, yet we repel and rebuilt on the corpses of the fallen, writing them off to those who know little better in the name of Light.
As time passes, I fear we might ourselves- even the trusted Scribes and confidants of truth, will come to believe our own faithful lies. We will believe ourselves to be the Church and people of God, and we will forget the many thousands whose bones we walk upon unknowing and ignorant as the masses.
Let it be said now, even as the fervor of faith rises to a tempest: The truth is known and I will stand beside it- no matter how ugly.
Those Lands of the West can not be challenged for victory, only resisted in preventing defeat. The wars we fight and die for, the holding of our walls, the coming crusade preparing to march deep into the heartland of the blackened soil: These are nothing more than passing squabbles to the true enemy who sits patiently atop a darkened spire while toying with powers beyond our comprehension.
-Zahra the Wise