The last words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part III
The Great Surge (~1930 to ~1950)
This was the Great Surge, a time when demons walked brazenly through Creation. Cities burned. Songs were silenced, love was lost, heroes rose and shone for a fleeting moment before being devoured and for a while, it seemed the darkness had won.
But then, amid the fiery chaos rose the destined fifth redeemer, Armozel, the seventh son of a Gothian carpenter. A prodigy of alchemy and sacred geometry, he discovered how to imbue metals with divine spirit, crafting weapons and armor unlike any seen before. While being revered as a blacksmith, his true genius, however, lay with the unseen, his hands guided by the Divine's hidden order, the laws of the elements, the patterns of the Ley Lines and the silent pulse of Creation itself.
At thirty-four, he entered the service of the King of Anatolia, and over eleven years, shaped not only weapons and fortresses, but strategy,scholarship and the art of war. Though once overshadowed by the splendor of Atlantis and the pride of Helios, Anatolia endured. Its people, tempered by hardship, became one of the last great bastions of the human will. Armozel’s teachings spread quickly through its grand halls and mountain fastnesses.
When the Great Surge began, it was Armozel who foresaw it and he who prepared the initial resistance. From across all the kingdoms, warriors rallied to his banner, the sight of which infused them with Divine inspiration and bravery and thus were born the Sons of the Light.
As the demonic tempest rose and spread,Axis Mundi, ancient and sanctified, opened its gates and the city became a sanctuary for all. And as the Surge engulfed the land, thousands fled to its spires, not only commonfolk, but also warriors, sages, artificers and the faithful. The Divine Tree, long withered, standing at the center of the Sepulcher of Love, became an object of pilgrimage. Its trunk wrapped in wards, its branches hung heavy with prayers and its roots watered with tears of pain and sorrow. But it is said that after Armozel entered the city with his shining legion, tears of hope were being shed at the tree, filling it with life and bloom.
One after another, the great kingdoms fell and eventually Axis Mundi herself was surrounded. But with her walls trembling under the weight of Hell’s legions chipping away at the ancient stones, Armozel stood defiant and together with his paladins repelled each demonic assault, each more vicious than the last. Some said Lilith herself led the last charges on the walls, crowned in bone and mist. But the truth is lost, as truths are invariably fated to become, amongst the flames of war.
It was then that Phaionios, the Archangel of Flame and Fourth Redeemer, descended from Heaven, imbued with Divine Wrath. The mighty gates of Axis Mundi were thrown open and the demon hordes fell silent as the fiery seraph emerged. Ahead of him came fire and fury, in his wake marched the Sons of the Light in all their glory, and in his hands, he wielded a divine weapon of unmatched devastation that in one fell swoop crushed the demon horde, sending waves of divine fire emanating from Axis Mundi and eventually throughout all of creation, like ripples in a pond. Thousands of refugees, paladins, and artisans were caught in the blaze, their souls never laid to rest. Only Anatolia was spared.
The Divine fire not only burns the elements, but it destroys spirit as well and as it devoured the legions of Hell wherever they were found, it also scarred the land. From Axis Mundi to the hearts of Gothia, Gallia, and Iberia, vast parts of the land became devoid of spirit; The haunted lands. Invisible to the Divine and mostly overlooked by the forces of Evil, these areas are to this day mostly inhabited by lost souls and the occasional animal that loses its way.
The tide turned. Armozel’s divine craftsmanship and Phaionios’ heavenly wrath forged a holy alliance, determined to hunt down the remains of Evil, wherever they were found. Initially though, their bond was uneven; The seraphim Phaionios, radiant and revered, Armozel the mortal genius. But during these trials the latter became universally recognized by the faithful and when the time was ripe, he was raised by the Divine to become the Fifth Redeemer.
Their crusade became legend. Together, they reignited the Ancient Stela, enabling fallen warriors to rise again. They raised watchtowers at the edges of known lands, engineered fortresses to guard the borders of each province as Evil was uprooted and sealed the underworld’s paths.
This was the First Crusade, and it delivered mankind from annihilation.
In the end, Phaionios burned the last of the demon gates, channeling divine fire into the rifts, while Armozel forged the seals to bar their return. And then, as majestically as he had appeared, Phaionios departed, his wings reflecting light across the heavens as the trumpets of the Divine sounded farewell.
But Axis Mundi had paid the price. Its gates were blackened, its air acrid and foul and its leylines scorched. Those who survived the final assault said it was no longer a city, but a shrine to the sacrifice paid to rid the world of Evil. After the Surge, it was left behind, not in grief, but in reverence. None dared rebuild for ages to come.
For Armozel, the story did not end in triumph.
Decades after the Crusade, pride took root in his heart. Tempted by the Deceiver in the guise of an angel, he rallied the Sons of the Light one final time and led them into the depths of Mount Medula, seeking hidden glory and forbidden treasures.
None returned.
Armozel, once the craftsman of salvation, vanished into shadow, his fate a solemn echo of the very sins he once stood against.
—Thelonius the Scribe
The Age of Legends (~1950 to ~2350)
The world did not recover quickly and the devastation that followed in the wake of the First Crusade lingered on for centuries. The Great Surge had left Creation scorched and grieving. The ancient cities of Atlantis, Helios, Carpathia, and Thule lay in ruin or shadow. Yet into the ashes of that fallen splendor, new stories were being written.
This was the Age of Legends.
The knowledge brought by Phaionios and Armozel endured, passed down by scattered, but determined survivors, scribed in crumbling halls, etched in relics of glowing stone. Their sacred geometry, their divine metallurgy, their rituals of light and warding, all became the foundation upon which a wounded world would heal and rebuild. Not in marble, but in will.
Congregations of believers emerged, scattered and often at odds, yet all looking to the heavens for guidance. In the absence of central kingship, warlords rose, some cruel, some noble, others forgotten. The land was broken into many holds and keeps, ruled by sword and pact, raided by monsters that had not returned to Hell, but lingered in deep woods and deeper caves.
It was a time of restoration, and also a time of haunting.
Across Creation, there were places the Surge had touched too deeply, lands where the veil between spirit and flesh had torn. In these haunted regions, ghosts could not pass into the Beyond. They wandered, lost in sorrow, rage, or confusion, bound to fields and ruins, like memories that refused to die. These lands are still with us, even now.
From this broken age, great names rose. Heroes whose deeds outlived their bones.
Arthur, Roland, Moyra, Siegfried, El Cid, Almanzor and Maven, these were not kings or queens alone, but symbols. Embodiments of sacrifice and sovereignty, strength and sorrow. They held the night at bay, slew horrors born of ancient sins, and built realms on cracked earth. Some died in triumph. Some vanished in mystery. Their legacies became the light we carry into our darkest hours.
And then, from a place of no throne and no banner, came another light, soft, steady, and enduring.
Oroael, the Sixth Redeemer, did not arrive in flame or miracle. He walked the land as a teacher, not a conqueror. He spoke of balance as peace, of the seasons as gifts, of work as devotion, of kindness as strength. He gave us no walls, no weapons, no empire, but the tools to live a worthy life.
And people followed.
From his wisdom came the first monasteries, carved into old places of power. His followers raised shrines and gardens, taught healing, music, scripture, and sacred labor. His calendar ordered the days, his prayers greeted sunrise and moonrise alike. He gave us the Rule of Life, not with command, but with clarity. And though he never ruled a nation, his words governed the hearts of nations to come.
Even now, in forgotten corners of the world, his teachings echo like bells in deep stone.
The Age of Legends did not end with silence. It ended with seeds planted and saplings growing, that would bear fruit for the generations to come
And it is said, if you listen to the wind at dawn, when the mist is thick and the world is still recovering from the chill of night, you may yet hear the stories of that time, whispered by ghosts, sung by monks and remembered by the souls of the past.
—Thelonius the Scribe
Credits, paintings: The Great Surge - The Great Day of His Wrath, John Martin, 1851 The Age of Legends - The Valkyrie's Vigil, Edward Robert Hughes, 1906