Chapter 3: Intro
The first war.
There were three obelisks.
The first pulsated with a deep indigo light, deeper than the depths of the great oceans. Gazing directly at it too long, an uncomfortable throb would begin in the head, behind the eyes, as if the brain begged to look away.
The second flared with the deep crimson stain of blood. The rays of light cloying and clinging to the skin and trickling down in slow heavy, thick drops.
The third glowed a harsh, ugly green reminiscent of seaweed and mold. Its glow was steady and advanced its illumination as the laborious crawling disease devours flesh.
All three were misshapen, at odd angles that conformed to nothing, and made of something resembling stone or mineral. Yet the textures were all wrong. They stood approximately the height of two men and were arranged in a very small triangle, each its own apex.
If one stared long enough, by a trick of the light or by something else, the obelisks would twitch.
It shall hold.
Standing a dozen strides outside, forming an opposing triangle, were three massive statues, towering over the obelisks. All faced outward and radiated a powerful light, illuminating the landscape as far as the eye could see. Behind them, their light absorbed the dark terrors emanating from the obelisks, allowing nothing to escape, holding everything within a foul prison.
The first of these was a proud warrior, heavy helm hiding every feature of his face save the firm eyes and the full beard. Armor-clad and bearing a heavy two-handed sword in one hand the warrior was poised to strike and strike hard.
The second was a figure wrapped in full robes, face hidden within the shadows. The figure stood nearly half a length taller than the other two. One hand stretched outward, as if to press down the earth beneath its feet. The other hand rested gently across the breast, fingers wide and long.
The third was settled into a gentle crouch. Her body wrapped and swaddled with strips of silk and muslin. Her long, flowing hair seemed to wave with the oceans. Her hands reached high over her head beckoning to the miasma that surrounded them.
Their features were all so life-like, if one were to suddenly breathe it would be no surprise.
Nothing parts the river.
Around them the stark, barren, landscape seemed composed of the strange stone. The sky was featureless, colorless, a churning miasma of nothing that wavered and flowed as a free river.
On occasion shapes would form within the boiling void.
A crumbling mountain.
An advancing sun.
A withering tree.
A storm of fire and lightning.
A dying behemoth.
The obelisks twitched. The heralds remained firm.
It shall hold.