Chapter 1- A storm On The Hill

The most violent storm for many years rages upon the solemn hill, as a traveler waits for the start of something which will be remembered for an age

The rain battered and spat down upon the steep hillside, as slate colored clouds loomed above the jade green mound and shrouded the peak in darkness. As the howling wind roared its anger at the defiant earth and the streaming rain threw itself upon the beleaguered forest few would notice the flickering gem of light sitting atop the hill, protected from the elements by the skeletal ruins of a long forgotten structure. Grey weather beaten columns spearing the earth broken and desolate on the lonely hill now surrounded by the monstrous storm which enveloped the land. The surrounding land was flat, covered with dense forests which stretched on into the far distant horizon where the land eventually fell away into the blood deserts far in the east. The solemn hill as people knew it, marked the end of safety for most travelers, since beyond this landmark, no settlements were ever built. The land beyond the hill was wild, untamed and for most children, the subject of stories told by their mothers to scare them before bedtime. Tales of serpents with crimson eyes and of half men, with yellowing skin and black teeth cut sharp on the bones of unwary adventurers became the legend of the Hill.

Marikan was the hills true name, meaning “evil height” in the ancient tongue. A language long since forgotten to the people of the world, however, for the lone traveler currently sitting atop the solemn hill the language was far from dead. Hunched closely over the fire with hands outstretched in an attempt to catch and cradle the warmth of the crackling embers.  A grey cloak wrapped around his shoulders tightly bore the brunt of the foul winds howls, and a roughly woven grey hood shrouded his face and protected it from the whipping sting of the cold rain. Sitting amongst the bones of the old kingdom, he resembled a relic himself, sitting still as stone upon the ground as the world roared and howled around him. He remained still even amongst the apocalyptic maelstrom, and seemed to show no fear of the hill, nor its surrounding lands filled with the ghouls of legend.  A crack of lightning overhead did little to rouse him, and he simply sat, staring at the golden flicker of the fire, as it illuminated him and the ruins on the inky black night, Waiting for the rise of the warm sun, and the start of something which would shake the very foundations of the earth.

Twenty miles away, the elderly gatekeeper Brant was sitting at his post, at the main gate of the small farming village of Hillshade cradling his hands around his small lantern to protect them from the malevolent winds chill. Hillshade was a simple village, named according to the custom throughout the land  of naming villages according to their attributes, in the case of this town, it was the closest in all the land to the solemn hill, therefore it was often stated that the town lived in the hills shade. Brant had been gatekeeper for sixty eight years, and his father before him had also manned the gate until his dying day. In his long service, he had known truly horrendous nights, where the cold threatened to snatch your very breath from your mouth or the wind vowed to tear up the roots of the trees themselves. But never had the old man known a night as volatile as this. The very sky seemed to be screaming at the earth with curses and threats as old as the world, as forks of lightning split the sky and  the light of the stars was shrouded in evil cloud. Brant peered from his hut by the gate at the hill far in the distance, Brant had always harbored a fear of that place, augmented by memories of when he was only six years old, and his Grandma would sit and speak of the evil beings that dwelt there. It seemed to Brant, that the storm seemed somehow focused around the hills lonely peak, with the top being completely shrouded by the clouds.

“Thank the divines for small mercies” muttered the elderly man, referring of course to the fact that while he may be out in such a violent storm, at least he was nowhere near the hill of evil, where the weathers fury seemed concentrated. Brant kept his gaze upon the hill for most of the night, fascinated by the ring of black clouds draped across the hills crown. He couldn't explain why, but he felt disturbed, by what he could not say but the feeling of ominous danger was growing increasingly strong as the night progressed, he found himself absent mindedly stroking the blade of his short sword, ready to draw it should the need arise. By dawn, the old man was weary, and kept looking anxiously to heavens for the sign of the rising sun, in all his years of watching the gate, he had never feared the dark like he had done that night. But it was not the storm that struck fear into his heart, nor the evil hill in the distance. It was the feeling, that the storm was the start of something, something which would echo throughout the ages, and in all honesty, Brant was terrified.