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Geriant
Account by Flavius of Mëdgeard, monk of the Aderran Order of the Sloped Script, in Imperial Year 632 Geriant was born in the little town of Amlwch, on a small island far to the west of Middle-Earth, Mëdgeard in the language he grew up speaking. Amlwch was a dour, rain-swept coastal town with little to do but farm sheep or fish, but at the top of the hill the town climbed was a temple to the war-god Tyr. As Geriant grew towards manhood, the fiery power of the priest Vortigern struck sparks in his heart that grew to a flame by his sixteenth birthday. When the time came for him to take a place in the family sheep farm business, he broke it to his father that farming was not for him. The Lord of War and Justice called to him, and only a fool defies the will of the Gods. Even then, the tall youth had a persuasive and commanding manner, and his parents were sanguine about his choice. A priest in the family would be a good thing, after all. So, with his father's blessing, advice from Vortigern and a rather battered sword that was all of his uncle Tristran that had ever come back from the fighting up at Ice Wall, Geriant set out to the nearest city. It took the priests of the Tyr temple in Hagerslake precisely half a day to realize that this tall youth with the heavy shoulders would make a very poor preacher, but a very good holy warrior, and to dispatch him to Car Anrask for training. The mix of skills required of a paladin came naturally to him, and two short years later he was on the road as a knight errant, ready to rescue the oppressed, uphold the noble, and smite the ungodly.
He proceeded to do exactly that, rescuing a noble's daughter from the ruined Halls of Tizun Thane and defeating the pirates of Galach's Bay among other adventures. He met his match, though, in the Giant Caves when he first encountered the Nazgûl. His existing weapons, while of good quality, were no match for foes of that calibre. Joining forces with his fellow paladin Andred and the priest Andrex, he quested though some of the darkest places in Mëdgeard to retrieve the lost Swords of the Azimuth. It was at this point that I, Flavius, met him and became his squire, bearing his shield, easing his burdens with the music of my flute, and fighting beside him when the need arose. Finally, we wrested the Swords of the Azimuth from the hands of creatures so unspeakable that I will not attempt to describe them. We returned to the Giant's Caves, where Geriant, Andred and Andrex felled the Nazgûl and scoured the evil from that dark place. Returning in triumph to the civilized lands, the three were rewarded and promoted. Geriant was named Knight Commander of the Rankan Empire, and granted lands and permission to build a castle. Andred became his Castellan, and Andrex the High Priest of Tyr in Alqualin's magnificent temple. With the aid of goodly wizards he'd befriended in his adventures, he raised the walls of his burg in five short years. Alqualin he called it, Fortress of the Swan, and invited the mightiest knights of the purest hearts to come and take service with him. A bright place of noble jousts, rich feasts and good fellowship it became, the star on the borders of the Empire. But evil is slow to forget… The black demon that had sent the Nazgûl to weave his dark plots in the caves under Mëdgeard had marked who had achieved the thwarting of his plots. Slowly he gathered his forces, and ten years after the castle was finished, he launched his war. Vast legions of Orcs, Ogres, Trolls, Dragons and worse creatures poured onto the surface and ravened across Mëdgeard. City after city was wiped from the face of the world, and one by one the staunchest of defenders of civilization were overwhelmed. One by one, the Gods of Light went down into darkness as their worshippers were exterminated. The demon had no interest in slaves or prisoners; he had followers enough. The surface races were straw in a furnace in the face of the black tide. In the end the last who resisted were gathered in Alqualin, fighting without hope. The last stand of the heroes is described elsewhere, and I was proud to stand alongside them, little use though I was. Dragon fire blackened the white towers, troll-hammers broke the gleaming walls, and the last heroes of the Light died, one by one. Geriant was the last, surrounded by black blades, his companions gone, his sword splintered. Exhaustion must have blurred my vision, because I thought I saw him shimmer for an instant, as if he vanished from one place and instantaneously reappeared inches to one side. It looked as if his many, many wounds were healed, if that were possible. I heard him murmur "Blodwen…" and heft his shortsword with renewed vigour, and then the demons were upon us and everything went black. I expected to find my soul in the Abyss at the start of forever, but when I opened my eyes I was lying on grass in the courtyard of a part-made building of strange design. People - humans - priests were bending over me with concern, and after they had healed my hurts they told me where I was; the new Basilica of Aderra, in the Imperial province of Stryre in the world of Alair. In the seventy-three years since that day, I have learned something of the cosmology of the Great Wheel; this world of Alair lies parallel to my poor shattered Mëdgeard in some way. Maybe a determined man could find the way back; but I am sure there is nothing there but blackened ruins under the heel of Gothmog the Valaraukar. I could do naught more than die there; only a Hero could redeem that lost world. This is my home, and I shall continue to chronicle its' events to the end of my days. What will ever puzzle me will be, if I lived, and escaped, what became of Geriant of at Alqualin's end?
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