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Contents[]

Summer's Manifestation[]

In the country of Nyralim's embrace, the summer manifests as an immortal Fae.
You know her, him, it, as the resplendent warrior or the ardent conqueror.
You mortals named him King Ysa. In the youth of your people's memory, you bore witness to Ysa's exploits.
He is your legend of might and eminence.
Come listen to a tale of Ysa and Ohn, the Godstorm, the Withering War.

Dalentarth[]

The forest you call Dalentarth was ruled by Ysa. The god-king fostered communion, a sharing.
The mortals heeded his wisdom, the Fae followed his spirit.
He linked the natural with the divine, and became a nature unto himself.
He knew the lives of elf, human, gnome, and all people.
He showed the Fae these words and ways. He united the oath clans.
As the meadow grows into woodland, so did Ysa grow the Court of Summer.

The Herald of Winter[]

There was another, named Ohn. This name was to be feared.
The name is death, decay, and violence; a cold and fading moment;
a mind not of misery in the few leaves of winter; a suit of armor, beneath which there lay a void.
Where Ysa's vision was of cultured landscapes, his was of the choking weeds.
Ohn's reach devoured the land. The Winter approached.

The Onset of War[]

The Great Cycle brought powerful magic to Amalur.
The Arcane Veil begat King Ysa's reign, and, all things in balance, also its destruction.
The seasons passed, the summer wilted into autumn and Lord Ohn culled his strength.
King Ysa's sway receded as does the shade at noon.
The Faelands rested from their sprouting, and a haze of indolence silenced the woods.
When the winter moon waned, it began. A terrible thunder rolled across the darkened Plains of Erathell.

Interlude[]

It is from this tale that you mortals create myths.
There were many battles, many losses, many victories. The tempest spared no one.
Your ancestors hid as the ground trembled under the gathered armies of Lord Ohn.
They whispered tales of the radiant Ysa, striking the Winter Fae like lightning tearing the looming clouds.
It was everything you know of war.

A Blizzard[]

The Summer Fae suffered the Winter's onslaught.
They collided amidst lightning and fire, and a God Storm gathered up the land in its embrace, crushing it.
Do you remember the steady rain, the hail of bodies both wintry and warm?
It was a sword carving the plains with death.

The Talisman of Fate[]

It was then that Ysa brought forth the Talisman of Fate and entered the marsh.
This craven arena, a place of life and death. The winds carried the songs of the dying.
The mire sucked the bones of armies below the sea-loam.
The mist shielded the eyes of your ancestors from the horror as the two armies clashed.

Something or Nothing[]

Ysa met Ohn. They embraced each other, and, in stillness, enveloped the darkened land.
Where one sang, the other danced. And they sang thus:

'We are Ysa!' and Ohn danced.
'We are Ohn!' and Ysa danced.
'I am the summer's dawn,' and Ohn bowed.
'I am the mourning winter,' and Ysa bowed.
'This thing is something,' and Ohn wept.
'Naught of naught,' and Ysa wept.

Behind the Veil[]

The Prince of Spring raised his sword toward the breaking dawn, and he called down the glory of the newborn morning.
Ysa bequeathed to the land the Talisman of Fate.
With its power, the earth rose to defend the birthplace of light, our cradle of summer.
So the Great Cycle swathed Ohn of the Thulian Dusk in the Arcane Veil,
and Ysa planted the Gardens after the storm, and nurtured the Court of Summer by the ruins of fire.

The Great Cycle Turns[]

The buds bloomed and all the willows wept.
Hear us, firstborn. Hear us, fleshones. Ohn forsakes his throne for a bed of crows.
Your people still search for Ohn's body, lost in the Marsh.
You scour the sand for the Talisman of Fate, although it is already yours.
The Gardens of Ysa are Summer; the Tuatha Deohn the entropic legacy.
Learn well the ways of both Ysa and Ohn, lest the Withering return.

See Also[]

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