Of the First Men Who Came to Vilmar

This story takes place on a wide singular continent waterlocked on all sides with multiple provinces and kingdoms and its various forms of governments. Over the centuries the continent had had many names but no true name has stuck. Some called it the grand continent, and a handful called it Sinovia or on occasion Sinof. But this story is not about politics but of a small tribe of people who lived on an island to the north-west of the continent.

Two Thousand Years ago, on an island several leagues away from the western coasts of the continent the people were facing the threat that risked the lives of their entire population. The demon raids were increasing and each time they came more blood was spilt. A sickness spread among the children of the island, an airborne contagion of sorts. A day came when the only thing left to do was flee to the mainland and thats what the last people of the island did and on their escape a volcano burst out and swallowed the island and the people watched this happen from their long rowing boats as they headed towards their new future. Some headed to the mainland and some to some other distant islands. It was each party to its own. This story follows the party which landed on the coast of Vilmar near the only traversible path into the mainland in the next 100 or so kilometers. But this was not known to them and all this happened out of sheer luck and chance.

The first step was taken by a priest of a faith of which he was the sole practitioner. A pious man he was, but kind. People of his parish were gone, lost to demons and disease. When some of the people decided to flee to the mainland, he was the first to volunteer.

The warrior was the second to volunteer. He had lost an arm in the last skirmish. He had nothing left on that island either, just like everyone else on the boats. His sin was doubt, as strong as his arm was, he doubted himself and his strength.

Many who could leave followed them to the boats, onward to a new land and a new life.

They setup camp on the shores. But their ill fortune had followed them there. A small scouting party of demons had followed them and the shimmering sea water turned red again. The people fled , deeper into the woods. They hid on the trees but the demons would always find them and each time they did a life was lost. This game of cat and mouse went on almost throughout the entire night.

When dawn came and the first light hit the vast grasslands of the place that would come to be called Vilmar, 4 lives were lost from a party of 13.

There was a small grove of moderately sized trees, the type of which wasn't common to their homeland. They ran through the grasslands in-between and hid on the trees and waited for their doom. And for a while there was only the sound of swaying grass and shrubs. It was peaceful.

A loud screech was heard coming from the woods at the edge of the woods they had come out of. The demons had picked up their scent. The people started to panic. Some started praying and some climbed even higher up the trees they were on. One of them was the priest. All he wanted to do was live. But the warrior by this point had lost all hope. And that ironically became a moment of clarity for him, because ahead of him lay death, either by starvation or by demon kind.

He climbed off from the tree and drew his sword. The people called out to him, shouted at him to not be a fool. But he was far from it. He told the people to run while the demons devoured him.

The priest shouted at him, "Don't be a fool! Climb! We can still get away. Come now, this is folly."

For which the man replied "I have nothing left to lose priest. Use this advantage my death will bring, run, tell the people I died an honourable death."

And as he finished his sentence, the demons had set eyes on him. The shine of his sword seemed to excite them even more.

The shrills and the roars filled the air as the demons made it closer and closer to the one armed warrior.

The priest had seen a lot of death. One would think seeing a lot of something would make you accustomed to it, but it was not the case with the priest. He had known the warrior all his life and he did not want to see him die in front of his eyes.

In his desperation and hopelessness the priest looked to the sky and screamed, "O gods of the land, heed my prayer. I am Nall of the Western Islands. I do not know your names or your stories or your rituals, but protect us now and I will sing of your glory till the end of my days. Help us now and we will lay tribute in your honour."

But nothing happened. The demons were dangerously close, the warrior did not hesitate even with his handicap. The first he felled with a swift strike into the demons mouth.

But this was no victory, for the very moment he pulled the blade out of the demon carcass another one made its way to his shoulder, bit into it and another one his lower abdomen. But even in this situation he managed to kill the one that bit into his shoulder.

All this while the priest looked away, crying and praying.

"Heed my prayer, please. A good man is dying. I ask not for my own life but for all who are in danger. I beg of you, please!", he said while trying to be as silent as possible.

He could hear the demons gnawing away at his friend who still wasn't dead.

And then they all heard the howls. Back home on his land this would mean death, but now it would turn out to be their prayers answered.

A fog came from the mountains nearby. It flowed in into the grassland from the valley and from the woods and seemingly from every direction. The demons stopped their desecration and looked around, trying to smell the new enemy.

The fog was dense, the priest could only see shy of 5 to 6 meters ahead. And then they all heard the howls again, but much closer.

The priest was even more terrified now. He hold onto the tree with dear life and looked down from where he sat.

A swift shadow ran past beneath the tree he clung to, racing toward the warrior. Then another. And another, until he realised a whole pack was surging past, kicking up dry leaves and dandelion fluff, their numbers alone enough to overwhelm the small demon horde of five.

They were the mighty wolves of the western mountains of Vilmar, standing atleast 7 foot tall at the head. In a matter of seconds the demonkind were shredded to pieces and the warrior lay on the ground with a tooth still stuck to his shoulder.

There was a certain calmness again. The priest just sat there, trying not to be seen by the wolves. The wolves did not touch the warrior. One of them gently smelled him as if trying to ascertain his fate and then he looked at his sister and howled, but not as loudly as before. This wolf was bigger and he had far more scars on him compared to the rest. His movement was gentler and more agile compared to the rest. He wasn't the biggest, but as he walked the others made way.

He walked towards the grove and looked around as to find something but didn't immediately see anything. He looked back at the woods near the coast and growled at one of the wolves. He grunted and ran off and a couple more followed him.

He was clearly the alpha of the pack, but what brought him here was uncertain. The wind rose and a cold breeze started to blow, and within the fog of the grove a shadow began to move.

None of this seemed like good news to the priest and the men on the trees. And in that moment they heard the most unexpected thing. The shadow was a woman, and she was mumbling a song or a poem under her breath as she made her way to the warrior. She was cloaked in green, and her voice was beautiful. But the men were not quickly disarmed for they had heard stories of witches and sirens before.

She knelt down to the warrior and offered her hand. The warrior was badly wounded and almost on the way out of this world, but he tried, but his hand never reached hers and he died.

She held his hand either ways, as if bidding him good bye.

All this blood and gore did not seem to bother her as she walked over bits and pieces of the demons. She walked towards the grove again and called out,

"Nall of the Western Islands, fear me not or these mighty wolves, for they serve me."

"This is a trick", said one of them.

Another shushed him. But the priest was in almost a trance like state. He had seen the impossible.

Most of all, just like his friend the Warrior, he now had nothing to lose, even his faith.

He crawled down from the tree and got down on his knees. He bowed down, fully surrendering to her will. The woman moved through the fog like a phantom, but she seemed very much human.

He could see her silhouette but could not ascertain any facial details.

"Your friend has gone over to the bright side, Nall. The wolves tell me he fought bravely and it was an honourable death."

Her voice was reassuring and her words were warm.

The wolves moved away a bit and sat down on the grassland just beyond the grove as of waiting for their mistress to finish what she came for.

"People of the Western Islands, you have faced much hardship to get here. I heard your prayers Nall and I am here for my tribute. What I ask of you and your kinsmen is the strength of your arms. This land is called Vilmar, one of the entryways to this continent. For long have the wolves protected this very important border from monsters and demons, but the enemy gets stronger with each age. I think its time the might of man and machine be put to use here as well. The wolves will help, the forest will provide. I cannot promise a peaceful life here yet for you, but your children will live a good content life."

When Nall raised his head, the fog had started to clear and the mysterious goddess of the grove was gone and in his face was the lord of the wolves, the leader of the pack. And in his eyes he saw kindness and the same warmth the goddess's voice had. He understood what he had to do.

A pact was made without speaking, a pact of friendship with the men of the west and the Great Wolves of Vilmar, a friendship that would last the test of time.

Taking the goddess’s word as gospel, Nall went forth to gather those who had fled the islands and raise a village in Vilmar. But first he buried his friend in the grove, built a stone altar upon the grave, and set the warrior’s sword atop it, to lie there until the end of days.

Over the years, he found some of his kinsmen, spreading the message to protect the borders and indirectly creating a following for the mysterious goddess of the grove. The first settlement was fully built on the beach in 3 year's time. A 100 years on, Vilmar had become a massive fortress with thick stone walls protecting its borders and sheltering multiple settlements within it. Nall had already passed after living a rather interesting life. His prayer beads, fashioned from the wood of the tree he once climbed, were laid to rest beside him, next to his fallen friend.