Tragedy of Sirant: Book 1

The day started like any other. Mundane, with the exception of a settling breeze long waited upon by the sun flustered commoners. The night had passed quietly, having brought this cold wind that put down the three-day heat wave that Rheydin was enduring. Time flew gently on the breeze up until the noon bells sang, and the rays of the sun beamed out of the sky. Yet another mild time to get out and enjoy the day. An Immortal voice shook the lands, with words reaching out to the minds of mortals:

"Gather at the Center of Rheydin for a competition. All may join."

Pilgrims gathered, and had amassed in the Center square of Rheydin around the ethereal white visage of an old man, Sirant the Complacent, God of the Lightwalkers, stood like a beacon. Voices stirred and small talk buzzed about the square. Suddenly the old man huffed, "It is time we begin." He continued, "We will need one representative of the good, evil, and neutral paths," After a bit of voting amongst the commoners, three competitors proven to have the strength and wits, were chosen, and stood forward to meet the unknown: Caan Tierathon, a Ranger of the Warmasters, Festorvian the Duergar, feared Cleric and Outlaw, and Moriath the Avian, a Ninja of the Knights. "The winner shall face me," assured Sirant with a mischevious smile. Conversation continued and whispers spread as to the nature of the competition. "It will be a debate," Sirant declared, "And Caan and Festorvian shall be first. The topic is: Which set of ethics, good or evil, builds the more stable society?" Festorvian, paradoxically assigned to defend the light, spoke first and preached valiantly about a society rich with honor and morality, trust and strength in unity. Caan, taking the side of darkness, continued with the virtues of ruling a society by an iron fist. Respect would be demanded and surely only a stable society could exist. Both spoke very eloquently, but when the public was allowed to vote, Festorvian was proven to have made the better point. Sirant nodded, and congratulated the victor. The next topic was already in mind, and Sirant proceeded with this game of wits. Festorvian was to debate Moriath on the topic, "Which makes the more successful general: the warrior or the mage?" Festorvian was chosen again; to take the opposing role of himself, and explain the warrior, speaking about the respect troops show a battle hardened general. Cape flickering in the air and blade glistening in the sun, it is hard to disobey the glorious general. Moriath spoke the mind of mages, telling how the persistent calculations of a mage would be necessary to plan a victory. This time the debate ran further, and made the commoners a bit more enthusiastic, and Moriath was chosen the winner. The apex of the debate was reached, it was time to match minds with the all knowledgeable, Sirant. But the god did not seem to show the amusement one would expect, but had a rather a serious look. He began with a heed of warning, "Choose the side you know best, for I am quite adept." Moriath could only choose the side he knew, the light. The topic was then decided, "Which position makes the most powerful God?" Sirant was to defend the role of evil.

The debate had hardly been under way and already Sirant was

speaking with broad gestures, proud of his every word and seeming to not get enough of the sound of his own voice. Moriath tried to interject with the strength of compassion and trust of the Light, but Sirant went off like a war chariot at full speed. "A God of the Light will only be drained by his followers, each begging for a piece of his power. Clerics and Paladins, tripping over their own feet to impress their God, only to push for the reward the second the deed is done." Sirants words were spoken with force and almost seemed to draw from too much emotion. "A dark lord will be served by only the strongest and not have to sit there answering countless pointless prayers. Feed me, guide me, help me, empower me- the children of the Light will pray, UNWILLING to help themselves. I grow weaker with every prayer, with every warcry, with every blessing asked of me." Sirants eyes began to cloud a deep red and people began to realize this wasn't a debate any longer. This was the transformation of Sirant.

These are the words written by Sirant. Transcribed by Herald Zeyrsi.