It came quietly, crawling out from behind the curtains hanging out in the fringes of creation. It came quietly, unobtrusively, slipping in, a little bit at a time, moving from world to world, never finishing the job; that was why it won.
“Oh it isn’t so bad, just a little bit here and there is entirely natural, light and darkness must coexist, that is the way of things”.
That’s what we told ourselves, until the horde came and the great sea of black washed over the stars and took them back behind the curtains shadowing the fringe of creation.
There are no stars, the worlds are too few and far between to see each other, veiled off by the mighty hand of the new God King Zeron the Dark; seeker of fate in fear. His armies of changeling's have taken the kingdoms of the worlds hostage and has nurtured out of it’s a people their darkest spirit, he has made all men bitter and wicked and he has raised out of them a dark army whose sword points to the heart of all fear, the Oblivion Gate where Zeron believes he will tear free the deepest blackness, the truest darkness.
But there is hope, fragile and weak, ready to be snuffed out forever, but it exists, in space far removed from Zeron’s black crown, on a world so inconsequential, so naturally devoid of hope on it’s own endeavor that it could not catch his hungry eye. On this cold world, a fire will burn, and a warmth with resonate out into the starless void.
On a cold world, an overcast windswept plain of tall grey-blue grass and a few withering trees a stranger walks, halfway hidden by the morose and lifeless wheat. The bright red of his robe is the only vibrancy on the forsaken, lightless rock. He walks with a purpose, never stopping, never changing where he let himself look, he moved toward one purpose, toward the village nestled in the lifeless bleak.
It could have passed for a city of sorts, it was large, its streets wound around in almost nonsensical serpentine turns and curves, choked on both sides by never ending rows of buildings, residential and business, there had been no districting, only where they could find space to build. The stranger in red found his way into the center of the settlement, one of them, as he could see from a map hung on a wall near him, the grey city had a northern square and a southern square, he was in the south.
At this squares center there appeared to be a large fountain, water pouring weakly out of the mouths of some exotic fish into the basin below, atop it knelt an angel, hands cupping her face, crying. The stranger looked around, taking in the hopelessness of the men, women and even children that went about their daily rituals. He couldn’t help but laugh, he had to, he was the only one who could, looking at the map once more he saw the name of the settlement, he had ventured into Hopes Heights.