Weaving - The Wrath Wastes

The elves called it Galfora. The changelings, Mak’si’dahn. A place where the majesty of Yan Nalora met the twisted beauty that pours from the Lifewell. The Last Forest. A holy land where the planes of Invigorant, Immolation, Tempest, and Temperament were so close you could reach out and touch them. A place that is no more. The sole pass between The Blades and Myth’ira. Trampled. Crushed by the many feet of soldiers and cursed by The King of Destruction himself.

During the war of lies, the conflict that shaped the West, scores of troops had marched through the region. A path to kill The Reach. Genocide. On their soles, they brought pain and hatred for the Changelings. They sewed it into the ground like seeds for harvest. A corruption. But Galfora was old. Ancient. The pain of men was no match for its eternity. Their invasive seeds would not spread if left to grow on their own. Sadly, it was not the spreading of hate that posed a threat to the holy woods. It was its smell.

The scent of hate, of terror. It drew forth a predator so foul the stones still tremble at his name. Jaw, the Word of Wrath. A god. A being of undoing, and destruction. A singular man who made the threat of incoming soldiers as forgettable as insects on the breeze. No one knew what he wanted. No one knew why he killed. No one knew why his words made the mountains shake, and the sky weep.

When they first saw him, it seemed a joke to the soldiers. The small group at the front of the formation mocked the orc who blocked their path. A madman, stranded in the woods far from home. An escaped slave perhaps? The humor was lost on them as they got closer. No one knows what words were shared in that early moment. All who heard were the first to die. However, none missed his following decree. A voice so loud it would shore stone from cliffs.

“Your choice has been made. Your lives, forfeit.”

Their numbers were in the thousands, these soldiers. A force built to raze a city to ash. But eight simple words had changed them. An army no longer. Amongst the lush trees of Galfora stood an enormous crowd of scared, solitary men. The one in ten who survived said that following silence spanned long enough for even the bravest to reconsider their path. Then it began.

Jaw killed in droves. A harvest of wheat at the scythe’s edge. Those who stood near him burst with the force of his movements. A boulder rolling down a hill, smashing through homes. His power was surreal. A thing from a dream. To witness the first tongue is to see the raw fray of the edgeless world itself. Terrible. Amazing. They were an army yes, but how does an army fight a god? Men fought, ran, froze, and died. They died like stars at dawn. Defenseless. Candles in the wind.

With every death, Jaw’s wrath bled into the world. It took hold of the army’s hateful seeds and blossomed them into destruction. Galfora cringed and shook as Jaw crushed the army like ants. There is no record of how long it lasted. No count of how many were killed. Only in the weeks to come would they find what came of Galfora.