Preacher of The Word
The stone carvings deep in the hills and caves had spoken of this moment for millennia. The slowly winding clock, spiralling, spinning, maddeningly out of order yet so chaotically in time. Long ago was it foretold by the mystics that ‘when the great sisters turned upon their paths would the unmaker exalt what is unmade’. The skies of Draven did not sound the flight of the eagles wings, it’s people beyond it’s ailing gaze. Many had heard stories of the ‘golden guardian’ and his righteous disciples. They heard how within his arms all was made safe, right and prosperous. They spoke gleefully of better times to come, a future where their lineage would be free from the curses that made their lives so very hard… but those times would never arrive. Neglected, alone and forgotten, hope guttered out within the people’s hearts.
As Draven’s sister moons swam across the horizon and crept ever closer to each other, a strange ambience bled into the air of a remote surface town. One by one its denizens made their way out onto the cold plains beneath the darkening cosmic orbs, guided by whispers of an inhuman tongue. They followed the whispers in a daze until they found themselves standing before the gargantuan figure clad in red, a tome of raging orange fire held open by one arm, a long brass staff streaming a glowing eldritch mist in the other. ” I am the preacher of the word and I have come to set you free…”
