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Fifth Age - Hell on Urthe: The New Age
The Dark Gods' minions have overcome the forces of good, and brought a new Age of fear and misery. As it was foretold, so has it come to pass ...
- A pleasant field, calm beneath by the light of a full moon ... but then the ground erupts, all over, as decaying hand after decaying hand thrust up through the soil, into the air, and then, all over the field, hundreds, nay thousands of corpses pull themselves back to the land of the living !
And what strange corpses - on each one's head is a rounded helmet of a design never seen before ... and about each neck, an amulet of power, with metal discs bearing symbols both strange and arcane ...
But worse than both of these, are the strange rods that these dead men hold in their arms, cradled to them like a precious child ... rods of blackened metal.
Row upon row, countless numbers of these Dead men, advancing slowly, but steadily upon the familiar forces raised by the People to oppose them - soldiers, mercenaries, anyone who can hold a sword or pike ... the normally solitary Rangers ... war-bands of Barbarians ... the Urthe Mother's Daughters and Her Consort's Petitioners, all urging the land itself to reject the evil that walks upon it ... The Chosen, summoning the forces of nature and hurling them at the foe ... Mystics, pitting their minds and Wills in the Urthe's defence ... Adepts, raising the power of True Magic against the Dead men ... but only a few of the Nightstalkers, the Dark Knights of Justice, dotted here and there, for those few are all that now remain, the rest already fallen before the gathering tide of Evil.
And now, at the last, Men, Dwarfs and Elves stand together, united against the evil that walks the land ...
All to no avail ...
Certainly, with all this might arrayed against them, the dead men's ranks are thinned by the onslaught, but never destroyed, and with their amulets glowing hotly at their throats, each one that falls rises again, a never ending tide of hatred and evil ...
And those rods ! Spitting fire and destruction, the dead men direct them at the massed ranks of the People and as they pass over them, Warrior and Mages alike fall like wheat beneath a scythe, their life's blood leaking from terrible wounds, and soaking into the earth, corrupting it.
And behind and above the dead men, three figures can be seen - Morrigan, Math and Arawn, growing more and more powerful as their army of dead men overwhelm the living, the laughter of their Dark Mistress echoing over the land ...
And then, above the field of battle, a giant snake sweeps down from the skies above, ichor dripping from its maw that gapes to swallow Dead and dying alike ... but the Dark gods are prepared, and now they usher forth Their living servants, Dark Elf, Orcs, Goblins and others to meet the serpent.
One stands before them, a Dark Elf warrior-maid, the fires of madness burning bright in her gaze as she plunges her great sword into the serpent's great golden eye, slaying it, though she herself falls ... but only to rise anew, taking on the serpent's mantle of godhood, to join the Dark Gods as the Mistress of the Pale Moon above.
Defeat. Untold numbers perished, either slain in battle, or in the aftermath of the Dark Gods victory.
Chaos ensued. Cities and towns were burned and looted, the great forests destroyed, as the new masters of the Urthe took their thrones.
And so the Fifth Age began, but there was no dawn to greet it, as mists and darkness enshrouded the lands.
The Dwarfs of the mountains delved deeper to hide from the turmoil without that drove their hill dwelling cousins from their homes. Elves highborn and of the shattered woods united in their opposition to the foe, but their numbers steadily diminished, as they fought to preserve what remained, while their gray cousins sought acceptance within the new order.
Half-Elves, once the pride of both their kin, became outcasts, while their new cousins, Half-Orcs are forever marked by the violence in which they were born. Halflings, long thought lost, no longer find themselves alone in their thralldom.
And Men, so easily corrupted and yet capable of greatness. Some joined the Urthe's new rulers, others continued the fight. Most simply survived.
The centuries pass. The spark of life within the Urthe has been reduced to little more than a glowing ember, fading, almost gone. Her Daughters are no more, hunted to extinction, Her Consorts have been driven from the land, diminished, Their worshippers scattered, and only the purest and most dedicated can reach out to call upon the gifts that were once freely bestowed.
Sorcerers, fearing the loss of knowledge, as more and more of their numbers fell, tried to preserve what remained, committing what they could to parchment. Now, hundreds of years later, those who dedicate themselves to the study of these mystical writings can glean knowledge and power therefrom. But it is not nearly enough.
Morrigan, Dark Mistress of War, revels in Her victory, yet moreso as She stirs up Her minions against each other, plunging the Urthe into an unending conflict beneath a sunless sky, to the glory of Her name. Arawn's Dead men walk the mist enshrouded lands, preying upon the living.
Math's Seekers conduct their foul experiments, searching ever more urgently for the answers that plague their master. The pale light of Rhiannon, the risen goddess, shines forth from the night sky upon Her Hounds, Her madness driving them to the Hunt.
And the People suffer still, their only hope a whispered rhyme, a prophecy of salvation ...
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