Many decades ago, before the advent of duels, when the four tribes fought with sword and stone across the lands of Nova Thera, a song of hope was written. In this age of turmoil, known as The Great Folly, a lone Wingfolk glided above it all.
The wind's gentle caress against Sorla's face provided no solace to her heavy heart. How can one not see the madness of this all? Beneath the tranquil sky lay a burnt swath of once bountiful farmland. The Wingfolk’s nomadic ways kept them out of The Great Folly’s path, for the most part at least, but they weren’t blind to the wounds it was inflicting. Eyes stinging from the rising smoke, she peered below, where the embers of destruction still flickered across the desolate landscape of a world she so fervently wished would see reason.
The wings of Sorla's glider turned gracefully above the scorched earth. This was her first time flying above the lands of the Triumvirate. Below her, soldiers from the mighty guilds clashed with the unrelenting raiders of the Waveborne. Sorla had to be extra careful whenever she landed for she had never held a sword or let loose an arrow. Sorla was a pacifist by nature yet she was undeterred when it came to venturing into the fray. She was a truly rare individual during these tough times. Enacting her duty is her drive, the same reason she now dives into the plumes of smoke.
A lorekeeper’s duty is to record history as it was, no matter how bleak, grim or disturbing, so that the mistakes of the present could be lessons for the future. Naturally their role often required the recording of more cheerful things, like songs and tales, though that felt extremely rare these days. Each time her glider descended to desolate soil, she sought to observe, understand, and provide solace. Sorla's lorekeeping wasn’t an act of simple collection, but one of preserving what was left and salving what pain she may come across. Everyone desires peace, and we all experience sorrow; when more realise this, the fighting can end. This became her belief, her mission. In an age of destruction, she chose to build.
Landing among the smouldering ruins of the village, Sorla's presence was met by the seething distrust of its remaining inhabitants. Pain was etched into every line of every face, such that even the young looked aged and cynical.
Unshaken by the resentful suspicion of their gaze, Sorla opened her arms with her palms facing the sky. Her posture calm and a voice like a balm, Sorla inquired if she could help their injured. While some met the offer with open disdain, none yet raised a hand against her.
A bereaved mother bridged the gap between the lorekeeper and the fearful villagers. The woman scolded those circling their visitor, questioning why they not only rejected a hand offered in aid but, at the same time, were seemingly content to spend their time staring instead of lending their own hands themselves. Faced with the kindness of Sorla and shamed by the mother, at last the wall of distrust was breached, if not yet fully torn down.
By filling her days with the struggle of foraging medicinal plants, tending wounds, mending clothes and rebuilding homes, Sorla’s actions and warmth melted away the lingering apprehension of the villagers, who eventually opened up to share their tales. She would listen, record, and, when asked to share stories in turn, recount what other villages had told her from across Nova Thera. The more that was shared, the more obvious the fact that, in every tribe, at least some wished to see an end to the ceaseless conflict.
Her stories proved popular, and it wasn’t long before she found herself tailed by children, always begging for just one more story of some faraway place. The harrowed lines in their faces that Sorla had seen at her arrival were no longer visible, though she silently mourned the fact that the unseen scars may never heal. Seeking to impart the importance of not simply knowing tales but sharing them, Sorla asked the children for stories in return.
They told her of the Guardian of the Pass, a gilded sentinel amidst the treacherous mountains, said to keep some ancient evil trapped in place below the peaks. When the children were around, the adults would insist on the story being a truthful one, though in private, they confided in Sorla that they’d been told the same story, yet not once seen a hint of this guardian nor the evil it was supposed to thwart.
Compelled by the desire to find any kernel of truth that may or may not lie at the heart of these stories, Sorla set out one day to scour the mountains for any evidence. She made camp there among the foothills, yet days came and went without success. On occasion, a few of the older children would shepherd the younger ones to her camp for a story or two and to see if she needed anything, before leaving the next day.
One day, a voice insisted on joining her, followed by another, then another. Try though she might, she couldn’t convince them to head home, and so, they followed. Games were played among rocks and crags, laughter ringing against the mountainsides. Then, a shrill voice cried out in excitement —one of the children found a cave entrance, largely obscured behind a pile of rocks. Thanks to a flurry of hands and good teamwork, the path was cleared. Sorla led the way, and the children followed.
Within the cave, resting on its golden bulwark, slumbered an ancient Grailshield. It didn’t take long for Sorla to realise that it, or someone else, must’ve barred the path behind the gilded giant, though she couldn’t fathom why. She had no way of telling how long it had rested there, hidden in the gloom of the forgotten cave. Inevitably, a kid prodded what had to be the fabled Guardian, though a somewhat wiser kid swiftly batted the poking hand away. As she inspected the Grailshield, she came to realise that it must either be dead from all the visible injuries it bore or resting in some strange manner.
After a few hours of carefully studying the giant, Sorla led the children back to her camp. This time, she wouldn’t stop insisting that at least one of the kids had to head home and tell their parents about their stay. After much protesting, bargaining and begging, finally, straws were drawn and two of the elder children were chosen to head back to Anvilclang the following day.
Dawn broke and the unlucky chosen departed for the village, grumbling and displeased, but depart they did. Meanwhile, Sorla and the rest of the children broke camp, packed up the tent, bedrolls and supplies, all in order to move the camp closer to the cave.
As they were making their way back to the cave, a pebble rolled by, unnoticed. Then, a rock. “Who threw that?”someone asked, but no one spoke up. Another rock, another question, still no answer. Then, just as they were about to reach the entrance, a low, dreadful rumble erupted from above. Sorla and the children looked up towards the noise. Far above them stood a red figure, wreathed in flame, cackling with a cruel, inhuman voice. She didn’t pay it much attention, for her focus was directed at the source of its laughter, the rockslide it had sent their way.
Time was of the essence, and the cave was far enough away that while she could almost certainly make it, the children didn’t have a chance. As such, she shouted for them all to hit the ground, curl up and cover their heads. They huddled together and she laid down between them and the oncoming rocks, facing them as she spoke reassurances. In her heart, she knew there was nothing she could do but hope. Only fate could decide which, if any, of them would be returning home.
As the rockslide thundered closer, another sound approached faster still. Rhythmic clangs, like a hammer striking an anvil, outpaced the rumble that followed. She could hear the last clang right next to her head just before it stopped, and in that same instant, the ear-splitting sound of sundering stone as she was showered in shards of rock and coughing dust.
Then, the rockslide reached them. She and the children lay there trembling, expecting to be broken apart and snuffed out, and yet, they were not. Impact after impact was heard, but not felt other than through the trembling of the ground, as a brief span of time that somehow felt like an eternity crept by. By the time the rockslide ceased, their ears were ringing and they were coughing up dust, but they were alive, unbroken. Unable to understand how they were still alive, it took the group some time to move, almost as if their survival was all a dream that motion might dispel.
But it was no illusion, no desperate hallucination spurred by denial. No, they were alive, plain and simple. Sorla finally stood up, her first action being to ensure that they were all indeed alive and accounted for. For a moment, she was gripped with horror, counting and recounting, before it finally hit her that the two that were missing were the same ones who’d left for Anvilclang that morning. She breathed the greatest sigh of relief of her life, before finally turning to investigate how they’d survived.
It didn’t require a particularly thorough examination.
Before her stood the Guardian, battered, beaten and aged by untold years, having slammed its shield to the rock hard enough to embed it. It had braced against the rockslide, withstood the horrendous punishment that entailed and remained standing. Standing, but unmoving. Overcoming her surprise, she quickly noted that it seemed to have fallen into the same slumber they’d found it in. Whatever strength it had left, it must’ve spent it all in order to save their lives. How? Why? Did it still live? These questions burned in her ever-curious mind, yet she knew she might never have the answer to any of them.
With their saviour still and silent as a statue, all she and the children could do was offer their thanks and hope that, somehow, the Guardian could hear them. Having lost some of their camping equipment and provisions to the rockslide, they returned to Anvilclang, dusty and worse for wear, but alive and unharmed, bar a scuff or scrape here or there. The story was shared, a story which grew into legend and song, a song sung far and wide to this very day—the song of the Shield Resplendent.