Epic the First by Aaron Dennis
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A wicked daemon bestows great power on evil men in exchange for worship. An unlikely duo find friendship amidst war and chaos. Godly forces collide. Larson and Garrett are two simple, young men, yet they both have their own daemons. In the face of danger, of strife, they join forces and find friends among the elves, the dwarves, and the orcs. They find knowledge and faith among the Gods. Though an evil air has permeated the once great country of Ruvonia, the band of wizards and warriors join the cause of Prince Roan, for the Magickal Prince wishes only to vanquish that evil daemon called Lagos, that vicious daemon trying to gain enough worshipers to ascend as the new God of Destruction.
Prologue
During the First Age, what is formally called the Era of the Gods, or the Age of the Gods, the world was but an agglomeration of fields of energy, of magick, of power. Each force represented its own individuality and their commiserate relationships in uncertain terms. After all, it would be impossible for men, dwarves, elves, or any other creature to pin down how a God feels.
All we know for certain is that Gods either got along or didn’t, and when they didn’t, they pitted their might against one another. To our knowledge—that is to say—it is common knowledge that some Gods such as Ruolla, God of Blood, were defeated, but even defeated Gods do not die. These murky details slip into and out of tomes, tales, and weird traditions, but the conclusion of the First Age is simply that the Gods stopped trying to kill each other directly, accepted their inexhaustible life source, and created planes wherein new things, things called creatures, were given awareness, summoned, manifested, and bred. This, naturally, led to the Second Age, or the Age of Life, or sometimes called the Age of Strife, though that name is probably more suited for our current age.
The Second Age is when the different planes came into existence. Not all of them are physical, but their residual magicks or energies are of a confluence that can be described as bands or bundles of energy, and as such, each is distinct; each has its own rules, its own creatures, and so on, yet before the planes, everything—the Gods—is all there was and intent, though uniquely individual, was simply inconceivable by human standards—and really by all living standards since no living creature can grasp the true nature, the essence of the Gods. Although the elves claim that they can, it is impossible to conceive the incommensurable.
It was during the end of the Second Age that the intelligent creatures were forged—humans, elves, dwarves, orcs, goblins, but this is not altogether accurate; before the creation of those creatures, there were others with perhaps far more intelligence, at least far more than orcs or goblins. Once, there were giants, drollgors, daemons, and creatures forgotten by everyone save the eldest of sages and liches. They are not common knowledge, though, and so humans and elves and dwarves, and whomever else, worshiped one God or another and fought for some cause or leader, or what have you, until peace was finally achieved, but peace is never complete, never eternal. The universe, the world, is a composite of opposing forces, ebbs and flows in the tides of magick.
We are in the Third Age now. Some call it the Age of Enlightenment. How could it be known as such when we know less now than we did two thousand years ago? Certainly, times are mostly safe, yet pillagers and bandits still roam countrysides. Goblins and orcs occasionally raid the townships, but in these times no one—or at least very, very few people—war in the name of a God. At this time, no nation is besieged by another. It is during these times that universities dedicated to magicks house elves and humans alike. It is during this age that a church of Devloa can be erected across the street from a Temple of Han. A human might even bed an orc, and though most would be disgusted, the mention of having had a few too many drinks as the reason is more than acceptable.
So you must be wondering why I said this should aptly be called the Age of Strife. It is because this age is still rather new, yet old enough for those who remain living to forget how dreadful times were, and this sort of forgetfulness leads down well-traveled paths. Stay the course much as a true hero does, and behold the war, the tyranny, the villainous deceit and suffering that lays brooding just beneath the surface of the world of Ahkai, and there, you will find that all opposing yet complimentary forces, yes, the Gods, still hold sway. Two unlikely friends may argue about this, but when something greater than themselves reveals itself, they take up arms, clear their heads, empty their souls, and act rather than talk.
I will tell you of a man called Larson and a man called Garrett. I will tell you of a timeless quest to battle forces greater than themselves, forces so powerful they stagger the mind. I will tell you of Akalabash, God of War, of Tarielle, Goddess of Magick, and of Lagos, God of Destruction. Sit back, and I will recount to you the adventures of Larson and Garrett, a true tale of epic proportions.
Chapter the first- The Sleeping Tree
Flotsam was a small town in the country of Ruvonia, and while the majority of the country was wooded, Flotsam was no exception. The town, however, had an odd history. A ship had wrecked in the Derring Sea, and after the survivors coasted down the river, they used what remained of the wreckage to start a small camp in a clearing by a tributary. Years later, the town came to be what it is now, a small place surrounded on the north and west sides by Red Pine woods with farmlands to the east and south. The tributary from the River Jons ran from west to east away from the sea rather than towards it as the Jons itself did.
The Third Age had led to the sprouting of innumerable, small townships and farmsteads like Flotsam; if there was running water and some form of protection, people were sure to build. Like many other human towns, Flotsam was relatively new, a quaint town home to a handful of families—descendants of the shipwrecked—and little else. The Ross family, however, were newcomers, at least the parents were. The boys, Largo and Larson, were born there. Margaret Ross, the boys’ mother, died shortly after Larson’s birth, leaving their father, and in part Largo, to raise Larson. The boy’s father, Mathew, was a gentle yet imposing farmer, and while he instilled obedience, he also made certain the boys learned respect, honed their bodies and minds, and understood the value of hard work.
