The fall of Harran
Mighty Harran: The desert winds, ancient and weary, still sigh through its skeletal remains, their whispers warning echoes of a fallen empire that once spanned across the sands
Ghosts of sandstone and memory, like fleeting phantoms clinging to half-remembered dreams, haunt the sun-scorched ruins, worn down by the relentless teeth of time.
It was here, amidst the echoes of forgotten greatness and the ghosts of empires, that our tale of a book unlike any other both began and ended - a tome whispered to have been shaped by divine hands in long forgotten days, its pages promising blessing and curse in equal measure.
Cracked and weathered, its leather bindings whispered of forgotten ages, its yellowed pages brittle as ancient bones. Within, secrets slept, guarded by the dust of ages. Its script, a labyrinth of strange, flowing glyphs, a tongue lost to all but the most wise of sages,They say its very letters shimmered with an eerie glow, like moonlight on a still pond, when first opened, revealing visions and truths that shattered mortal minds.
The book was kept in a secret library beneath the Summoner's Guild, a vault choked with towering stacks of crumbling parchment leaning like ancient sentinels, their surfaces etched with the ghosts of forgotten tales. Only the Guild Master, his face a map of seasons lived and secrets etched in worry, was deemed worthy to glimpse its secrets. But he did so sparingly, for the truth within was a crucible, capable of shattering the sanity of lesser men. Yet, even as that forbidden knowledge lay dormant in the cold embrace of stone and shadow, its tendrils reached out, drawing unwitting souls by cruel acts of faith. In the Serpent's Coil tavern, the air hung thick with the mingled scents of spiced wine and wooden smoke, the clamor of
]merchants and mercenaries a dull roar in Salim's ears. He nursed his date wine, the tedium of his privileged life as heir apparent of one the great merchant houses weighing heavily upon him, when two figures in the high-collared robes of the Summoner's Guild slipped into the shadows of a nearby booth. Their voices, hushed and urgent, spoke of a legend Salim had only ever dismissed as tavern talk: a tome of divine origin, said to hold the power to unravel the very fabric of reality. One summoner spoke of its beauty and danger, '...a script of living light, they say, that burns truth into the soul,' while the other warned, "To gaze upon its pages is to invite the gods themselves into your mind - and who can say what they will find there?" Salim, his boredom forgotten, found himself intrigued.
Their quiet whispering was a lure, mysterious and tantalizing, kindling a fire of dangerous curiosity within Salim's heart. The thought of a book that could lay bare the essence of his soul was both thrilling and terrifying. His mind became a whirlwind of possibilities, each more enticing and daunting than the last. What hidden truths might the book reveal? How would their revelations alter his destiny?
As days turned to years, the thought blossomed from an idea to an obsession that devoured his waking hours and stalked his slumbering mind. Salim wrestled with his longing, torn between the comfort of the life he knew and the seductive allure of the unknown. The book beckoned to him, a siren call promising answers to the questions that plagued him - his purpose, his fate, the very core of his being.
The decision to seek out the book was not an easy one. Salim weighed the risks: the cold dread of capture, the bitter taste of betrayal on his family's lips, the life he might forfeit. Yet, the burning hunger for truth roared within him, eclipsing all fear. He resolved to uncover the tome's mysteries, no matter the cost.
Information about the book's whereabouts was sparse, the rumors elusive, like shadows dancing just beyond reach, fueling Salim's yearning even further. He chased whispers through the city's underbelly, each dead end a chilling reminder of the risks he was taking. Finally, under the cover of a moonless night, he bribed a nervous guard. The man's eyes darted with fear as he accepted the heavy purse. Then, Salim slipped into the Summoner's Guild. The immense oak doors groaned shut behind him, like the jaws of some ancient beast. He made his way through the dark corridors. Cold stone, slick beneath his trembling fingers, and air thick with the scent of dust and decay pressed in on him. The silence was broken only by the distant cry of a crow. And his heart, his frantic heart, thumping a rhythm that threatened to betray his presence. Every shadow seemed to writhe and shift. Every step was a dance with danger, a gamble against discovery and the unknown horrors that might lie ahead.
He finally reached the secret chamber where the book was kept. It was a small, dusty room, yet it felt vast and ancient, as if time itself held its breath within its walls. A single, dust-laden table, its surface scarred and pitted, stood in the center, accompanied by a creaking, three-legged chair that looked as though it might collapse under the weight of a shadow. No other adornment graced the chamber, no tapestry, no carving, only stillness and the weight of untold secrets. A single ray of moonlight, slanting through a narrow window, fell upon the book: a volume bound in pitted brown leather, the hide subtly shifting and swirling with glowing scripts, its edges hinting at the glint of ancient metal, promising both knowledge and oblivion. The air around it hummed with a strange energy, a breath held, a moment before thunder struck - as if the room itself waited for the book to be opened.
Salim stood motionless before the ancient book, the weight of the last years pressing down upon him like a physical burden. The moonlight cast long shadows across the chamber, and the silence was so profound he could hear the frantic beating of his own heart, a trapped bird against his ribs. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the tome, as a myriad of thoughts raced through his mind, a chaotic storm of memories and warnings: the faces of those he might never see again, the hushed voices of the summoners, the terrifying glimpses of shattered minds in ancient texts.
With a deep, steadying breath, Salim reached out, his fingers grazing the leather cover, his skin prickling with the rush of forbidden fruit. A shiver ran up his spine, not from the chill of the room, but from the realization of what he was about to do, the unleashing of a power he could scarcely comprehend. The book seemed to beckon him closer, its symbols glowing faintly in the dim light, their light swirling with a life of their own, as if eager to be awakened.
As Salim opened the book, a wave of pure sensation crashed over him. It wasn't visual at first, but a cacophony of whispers in dead tongues, each syllable resonating deep within his bones. Colors erupted behind his eyelids, hues that shimmered and pulsed in defiance of the dim moonlight. A dizzying sense of connection bloomed in his chest, as if the threads of his being were momentarily woven into the fabric of the cosmos, followed by an equally terrifying feeling of utter insignificance.
The words were in a language he didn't understand, yet he could feel the power thrumming beneath his fingertips, a cold dread seeping into his veins. As his eyes wandered the pages, phantom images flickered at the edges of his sight, accompanied by quiet murmurs that slithered into his ear, each syllable a distorted echo of his own name, laced with accusation. He saw all - all he did, all he ever was, his own self mirrored in the pages, but twisted into a leering effigy, a grotesque mockery that made his stomach clench. His face was a mask of cruelty, his eyes hollow pits promising disappointment, his hands stained with unseen blood, a testament to sins the books insisted were his.
He saw his flaws and weaknesses magnified a hundredfold, laid bare on the pages. He saw the darkness in his own heart, a festering abyss of envy, greed, and lust. He saw the things he had done that he was ashamed of, every betrayal, lie and broken promise, every moment of cowardice. He saw the consequences, the suffering he had inflicted on others, their faces contorted in pain and accusation. He saw the mistakes he had made, the choices that shaped him into the broken creature he now beheld. All was laid bare before him, dragged out into the cruel light of truth, leaving him raw and exposed. A strangled cry, a broken sob torn from his throat, escaped his lips. Salim tried to slam the book shut, his hands shaking so violently that the ancient leather slipped from his grasp. But it was far too late. The terrible knowledge, the grotesque images, the accusing voice -, it had already begun to consume him, each truth a shard of glass lodged in his mind. He began to tear at the pages, not with anger, but with a desperate, childlike bewilderment, as if by destroying the source of the vision, he could somehow undo the knowledge he had gained. His eyes, wide and unblinking, stared at some unseen horror, and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. The Guild Master heard Salim's screams and rushed to the room, furious. Raw magical energy crackled around his outstretched hands, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air as he prepared to strike down the intruder. He found Salim cowering in the corner, surrounded by the torn pages of the book. Salim's eyes were wild and unfocused, his beard slick with spittle, and he was muttering to himself in a tongue that was not meant for mortal minds. For weeks the Master cared for Salim, hoping against hope to mend the young man's shattered mind. Yet, despite his most potent spells and tireless vigils, Salim remained lost in his own truth, a hollowed shell of his former self, filled with utter despair and madness.
Word of Salim’s condition spread quietly at first, carrying on hushed whispers among the guild members. But a subtle unease began to ripple outwards, beyond the stone walls of the Summoner's Guild. The usual boisterous calls of vendors in the market dwindled to anxious murmurs. Even the guards at the city gates, once jovial in their greetings, now scanned every face with a hard, distrustful gaze.
Children still played in the streets, but their games were quieter, their laughter punctuated by sudden, wary glances at passing strangers.
Then came the isolated incidents, unsettling cracks in the city's facade of normal life.
Old Alyri, the kindly herbalist known for her soothing remedies, began to accuse her neighbors of poisoning her well, her voice shrill with paranoia. Young Hakim, an apprentice blacksmith, was found staring blankly at his forge, muttering about faces he saw in the flames, faces twisted in eternal torment. A respected scholar, usually lost in ancient texts, was seen wandering the streets, tearing pages from his own precious books and screaming about the lies they contained. Even the stoic captain of the city guard, once a paragon of virtue, began to flinch at shadows, convinced unseen enemies were plotting his demise. There were dozens more, each another shard of glass in the city's sanity, sowing seeds of fear and whispered questions about a creeping malady.
The city watch, their ranks thinned by fear and their authority undermined by growing suspicion, became a sporadic, rare presence in the streets. Shops began to close early, their owners bolting their doors against unseen threats. The annual harvest festival, usually a time of joyous celebration, was canceled, the silence amplifying the city's growing dread.
A sudden illness that swept through a few households was immediately attributed to the book's curse, fueling rumors of a magical plague. Accusations flew freely, with neighbors denouncing each other based on flimsy suspicions and fearful interpretations of mundane occurrences.Trust became a currency more precious than gold, and suspicion the dagger hidden in every shadow. Friendships unraveled like threads in a worn-out tapestry, and families closed their doors, bolting them against friends and family.
The leaders of Harran, once proud and just, found themselves powerless against the tide of madness that swept through their streets.The city council of elders convened in hushed, frantic sessions, their debates devolving into accusations and panicked theories. The sultan of Harran, his face etched with sleepless nights, issued increasingly erratic proclamations, promising harsh punishments for unknown crimes. Soon, even his closest advisors began to whisper about his increasingly vacant stare.
Driven by this fear, as distrust curdled into violence, the streets ran red with blood. Brother turned against brother, neighbour against neighbour, each fueled by paranoia and the distorted whispers in their minds. Amidst the chaos, a gaunt figure in a once ornate robe of the Summoner's Guild could be seen moving through the panicked crowds. The guild’s master, his face now a mask of sorrow and exhaustion, his hands outstretched in a futile attempt to calm the violence, his voice hoarse as he pleaded for reason. But his words were lost in the cacophony of screams and the clash of steel. A stray blade, wielded by a frightened, enraged merchant,lashed out, and the guilds master, the last living voice of reason within the city, fell silent amidst the carnage.
Chaos and flames devoured the city, raging for days, weeks - a kaleidoscope of madness few souls escaped. Those that did were utterly mad,their minds shattered remnants of their former selves. And so, Harran, once a shining jewel, succumbed not to war or famine, but to a slow, lingering death, choked by tendrils of dread that strangled its people's spirit. The kingdom, robbed of its brightest minds, crumbled shortly after, swept away by rivals and conquerors.
As for the The Book of Truth, sealed away in the depths of the guild: It vanished into legend once more - a warning tale that not all knowledge is meant for mortal minds.
The book was kept in a secret library beneath the Summoner's Guild, a vault choked with towering stacks of crumbling parchment leaning like ancient sentinels, their surfaces etched with the ghosts of forgotten tales. Only the Guild Master, his face a map of seasons lived and secrets etched in worry, was deemed worthy to glimpse its secrets. But he did so sparingly, for the truth within was a crucible, capable of shattering the sanity of lesser men. Yet, even as that forbidden knowledge lay dormant in the cold embrace of stone and shadow, its tendrils reached out, drawing unwitting souls by cruel acts of faith. In the Serpent's Coil tavern, the air hung thick with the mingled scents of spiced wine and wooden smoke, the clamor of
Their quiet whispering was a lure, mysterious and tantalizing, kindling a fire of dangerous curiosity within Salim's heart. The thought of a book that could lay bare the essence of his soul was both thrilling and terrifying. His mind became a whirlwind of possibilities, each more enticing and daunting than the last. What hidden truths might the book reveal? How would their revelations alter his destiny?
As days turned to years, the thought blossomed from an idea to an obsession that devoured his waking hours and stalked his slumbering mind. Salim wrestled with his longing, torn between the comfort of the life he knew and the seductive allure of the unknown. The book beckoned to him, a siren call promising answers to the questions that plagued him - his purpose, his fate, the very core of his being.
The decision to seek out the book was not an easy one. Salim weighed the risks: the cold dread of capture, the bitter taste of betrayal on his family's lips, the life he might forfeit. Yet, the burning hunger for truth roared within him, eclipsing all fear. He resolved to uncover the tome's mysteries, no matter the cost.
Information about the book's whereabouts was sparse, the rumors elusive, like shadows dancing just beyond reach, fueling Salim's yearning even further. He chased whispers through the city's underbelly, each dead end a chilling reminder of the risks he was taking. Finally, under the cover of a moonless night, he bribed a nervous guard. The man's eyes darted with fear as he accepted the heavy purse. Then, Salim slipped into the Summoner's Guild. The immense oak doors groaned shut behind him, like the jaws of some ancient beast. He made his way through the dark corridors. Cold stone, slick beneath his trembling fingers, and air thick with the scent of dust and decay pressed in on him. The silence was broken only by the distant cry of a crow. And his heart, his frantic heart, thumping a rhythm that threatened to betray his presence. Every shadow seemed to writhe and shift. Every step was a dance with danger, a gamble against discovery and the unknown horrors that might lie ahead.
He finally reached the secret chamber where the book was kept. It was a small, dusty room, yet it felt vast and ancient, as if time itself held its breath within its walls. A single, dust-laden table, its surface scarred and pitted, stood in the center, accompanied by a creaking, three-legged chair that looked as though it might collapse under the weight of a shadow. No other adornment graced the chamber, no tapestry, no carving, only stillness and the weight of untold secrets. A single ray of moonlight, slanting through a narrow window, fell upon the book: a volume bound in pitted brown leather, the hide subtly shifting and swirling with glowing scripts, its edges hinting at the glint of ancient metal, promising both knowledge and oblivion. The air around it hummed with a strange energy, a breath held, a moment before thunder struck - as if the room itself waited for the book to be opened.
With a deep, steadying breath, Salim reached out, his fingers grazing the leather cover, his skin prickling with the rush of forbidden fruit. A shiver ran up his spine, not from the chill of the room, but from the realization of what he was about to do, the unleashing of a power he could scarcely comprehend. The book seemed to beckon him closer, its symbols glowing faintly in the dim light, their light swirling with a life of their own, as if eager to be awakened.
As Salim opened the book, a wave of pure sensation crashed over him. It wasn't visual at first, but a cacophony of whispers in dead tongues, each syllable resonating deep within his bones. Colors erupted behind his eyelids, hues that shimmered and pulsed in defiance of the dim moonlight. A dizzying sense of connection bloomed in his chest, as if the threads of his being were momentarily woven into the fabric of the cosmos, followed by an equally terrifying feeling of utter insignificance.
The words were in a language he didn't understand, yet he could feel the power thrumming beneath his fingertips, a cold dread seeping into his veins. As his eyes wandered the pages, phantom images flickered at the edges of his sight, accompanied by quiet murmurs that slithered into his ear, each syllable a distorted echo of his own name, laced with accusation. He saw all - all he did, all he ever was, his own self mirrored in the pages, but twisted into a leering effigy, a grotesque mockery that made his stomach clench. His face was a mask of cruelty, his eyes hollow pits promising disappointment, his hands stained with unseen blood, a testament to sins the books insisted were his.
He saw his flaws and weaknesses magnified a hundredfold, laid bare on the pages. He saw the darkness in his own heart, a festering abyss of envy, greed, and lust. He saw the things he had done that he was ashamed of, every betrayal, lie and broken promise, every moment of cowardice. He saw the consequences, the suffering he had inflicted on others, their faces contorted in pain and accusation. He saw the mistakes he had made, the choices that shaped him into the broken creature he now beheld. All was laid bare before him, dragged out into the cruel light of truth, leaving him raw and exposed. A strangled cry, a broken sob torn from his throat, escaped his lips. Salim tried to slam the book shut, his hands shaking so violently that the ancient leather slipped from his grasp. But it was far too late. The terrible knowledge, the grotesque images, the accusing voice -, it had already begun to consume him, each truth a shard of glass lodged in his mind. He began to tear at the pages, not with anger, but with a desperate, childlike bewilderment, as if by destroying the source of the vision, he could somehow undo the knowledge he had gained. His eyes, wide and unblinking, stared at some unseen horror, and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. The Guild Master heard Salim's screams and rushed to the room, furious. Raw magical energy crackled around his outstretched hands, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air as he prepared to strike down the intruder. He found Salim cowering in the corner, surrounded by the torn pages of the book. Salim's eyes were wild and unfocused, his beard slick with spittle, and he was muttering to himself in a tongue that was not meant for mortal minds. For weeks the Master cared for Salim, hoping against hope to mend the young man's shattered mind. Yet, despite his most potent spells and tireless vigils, Salim remained lost in his own truth, a hollowed shell of his former self, filled with utter despair and madness.
Word of Salim’s condition spread quietly at first, carrying on hushed whispers among the guild members. But a subtle unease began to ripple outwards, beyond the stone walls of the Summoner's Guild. The usual boisterous calls of vendors in the market dwindled to anxious murmurs. Even the guards at the city gates, once jovial in their greetings, now scanned every face with a hard, distrustful gaze.
Children still played in the streets, but their games were quieter, their laughter punctuated by sudden, wary glances at passing strangers.
Look upon the empty sands where Harran once stood, child. Remember that some doors are best left unopened, some books unread.
Mihala Shi'ni, Daughter of House Ralis
Old Alyri, the kindly herbalist known for her soothing remedies, began to accuse her neighbors of poisoning her well, her voice shrill with paranoia. Young Hakim, an apprentice blacksmith, was found staring blankly at his forge, muttering about faces he saw in the flames, faces twisted in eternal torment. A respected scholar, usually lost in ancient texts, was seen wandering the streets, tearing pages from his own precious books and screaming about the lies they contained. Even the stoic captain of the city guard, once a paragon of virtue, began to flinch at shadows, convinced unseen enemies were plotting his demise. There were dozens more, each another shard of glass in the city's sanity, sowing seeds of fear and whispered questions about a creeping malady.
The city watch, their ranks thinned by fear and their authority undermined by growing suspicion, became a sporadic, rare presence in the streets. Shops began to close early, their owners bolting their doors against unseen threats. The annual harvest festival, usually a time of joyous celebration, was canceled, the silence amplifying the city's growing dread.
A sudden illness that swept through a few households was immediately attributed to the book's curse, fueling rumors of a magical plague. Accusations flew freely, with neighbors denouncing each other based on flimsy suspicions and fearful interpretations of mundane occurrences.Trust became a currency more precious than gold, and suspicion the dagger hidden in every shadow. Friendships unraveled like threads in a worn-out tapestry, and families closed their doors, bolting them against friends and family.
The leaders of Harran, once proud and just, found themselves powerless against the tide of madness that swept through their streets.The city council of elders convened in hushed, frantic sessions, their debates devolving into accusations and panicked theories. The sultan of Harran, his face etched with sleepless nights, issued increasingly erratic proclamations, promising harsh punishments for unknown crimes. Soon, even his closest advisors began to whisper about his increasingly vacant stare.
Driven by this fear, as distrust curdled into violence, the streets ran red with blood. Brother turned against brother, neighbour against neighbour, each fueled by paranoia and the distorted whispers in their minds. Amidst the chaos, a gaunt figure in a once ornate robe of the Summoner's Guild could be seen moving through the panicked crowds. The guild’s master, his face now a mask of sorrow and exhaustion, his hands outstretched in a futile attempt to calm the violence, his voice hoarse as he pleaded for reason. But his words were lost in the cacophony of screams and the clash of steel. A stray blade, wielded by a frightened, enraged merchant,lashed out, and the guilds master, the last living voice of reason within the city, fell silent amidst the carnage.
Chaos and flames devoured the city, raging for days, weeks - a kaleidoscope of madness few souls escaped. Those that did were utterly mad,their minds shattered remnants of their former selves. And so, Harran, once a shining jewel, succumbed not to war or famine, but to a slow, lingering death, choked by tendrils of dread that strangled its people's spirit. The kingdom, robbed of its brightest minds, crumbled shortly after, swept away by rivals and conquerors.
As for the The Book of Truth, sealed away in the depths of the guild: It vanished into legend once more - a warning tale that not all knowledge is meant for mortal minds.
