The First Stormheralds
Written by J-Haskell.
A legend of how the Four Beloved, goddesses worshipped primarily by the nomadic stormheralds who wander the deserts of Cyr, shaped the land and forged the seasons to nurture and test their children, and their relationship with the mysterious and terrifying Forgotten One.
Each nomadic tribe’s telling varies; this version is as told by Petrichor, the host of the Wildport Radio, and former nomadic stormherald.
. . .
Hello, hello, good morning, Wildport! Springtime’s finally reached us and I’m sure you’re all absolutely delighted with the rain we’ve gotten. I know I sure love feeling like I’m strolling through the sea every time I go outdoors.
Unfortunately, I can’t say the forecast looks much better. Rain, rain, and… ooh, more rain. Should stop sometime after sunset, though, so good news for any night owls out there.
With that out of the way, I’m sure you all know the drill. It’s time for an old stormherald to share some stories they picked up as a lad. Whatever your mileage on the old tales is, I think you’ll find this one interesting. See, this one’s about the old days. And no, I’m not talking about what your grandparents complain about when things don’t go their way. The really old days. Before Ironbrook or the stormheralds or miss-old-lady the Augury, and before even the Elder Drakes cast shadows across the sands.
During this time our home was nothing but dead sand. The ocean was there, sure, but nothing but barren, empty desert stretching that great distance between the Wild Sea and the Thundering Channel. Emptiness, and our Four Beloved. This quartet of lovers was Baran, goddess of the rain - now you know who to curse for this deluge; Mehr, goddess of the sun; Esen, goddess of the wind; and last, as is appropriate, Cemre - goddess of death.
Where did they come from, you ask? Who knows. Perhaps they were always there. Perhaps they emerged from the earth, trailing sand behind them as they rose. Perhaps they fell from the sun or the stars like great, burning comets, and their arrival itself caused the emptiness they found themselves in.
Whatever their origins, they found themselves in a sun-scorched emptiness that only the goddess Mehr could love. And while she did adore the shimmering haze of heat rippling in the air, and the hot sand underfoot, she adored the other three Beloved more and did not fight them much when it was decided that they ought to each shape a part of the emptiness to their liking.
In the furthest southern region of the desert, Baran made her home. She brought with her blooming flowers, young animals and unending rain; the water washed away all life in time, leaving her surrounded by nothing but a slurry of soaked sand and mud.
In the central region, Mehr settled down, and the heat of the sun overhead grew so intense that to walk upon the sand would set any stray creatures of Baran aflame.
In the west, Esen raised the land itself to create jagged stone mountains so that she could be closer to the sky, and a constant dry wind howled between the peaks, stripping the land bare so that naught but rocks could thrive in her domain.
Lastly, far in the north where our lands today border the great nation of Ironbrook, Cemre dwelled within a wasteland not of sand but instead sheets of ice and snow. Nothing could grow or live in her domain, and thus she was alone.
It was not the Four Beloved’s intentions to ravage the land so, only that each had misjudged their own abilities; they could not shape home for themself by their skills alone. And so, the next time the lovers met, a pact was made; every few months, one of the Beloved would rule the entire desert, and spread their influence over it, before being replaced by another. It was in this way that the seasons began, changing as the Four Beloved hand power off to each other. Although in their homes their influence remained no matter the time of year, the guidance of the dominant member of the Four Beloved meant that balance came to the desert, and life spread and grew and changed under their watchful eyes.
Many seasons passed like this before one day, while guiding the rains to fall across the lands in spring, Baran discovered a child left alone in the desert. See, this was before the time of the stormheralds or most other talking, thinking creatures. Neither of the Four Beloved could explain where the child had come from. However, they all quickly fell for him, and soon enough named him their son, and raised him together. We no longer remember his name, however, and simply know him today as the Forgotten One.
Once he was old enough, each took him under her wing during her season to teach him some of their arts. Baran showed him how to bring about spring, Mehr to call upon the heat of the summer sun, Esen the art of shaping the wind so it stripped away the leaves and muck of the last year, and Cemre the quiet, solemn task of bearing the souls of the dead and returning them to Baran so that they might be returned to the world of the living once more.
Centuries passed. The Forgotten One grew and matured. He asked his mothers, many times, for more independence; he wanted to do more than help them. He wanted his own place in the world, his own duties, to be equally as important as the Four Beloved. His mothers told him each time that “you are not old enough, my son. Once you are grown, perhaps.”
The Forgotten One did not like this answer and strove more and more each season to show himself to be ‘grown’ and capable of doing things on his own. Distance grew between him and his mothers as each season, nothing seemed to change, and he seemed no closer to earning his place.
The final straw for him was when the Four Beloved, remembering his infant years fondly and taking great joy in seeing their son interact with the lands, plants and creatures they had created, decided that they wished to build ‘younger siblings’, of sorts, that could do the same - the first stormheralds.
The Four Beloved worked together to do so; Cemre shaped their bones from white stone and their scales from black rock; Esen gifted them with vast, feathered wings so that they might enjoy the skies and a touch of fulgurite in their jaws so that they might call down the wrath of the storm upon those who attempted to harm them; Mehr decorated their scales in brilliant, colourful gemstones and filled them with a love for the summer sun; and lastly, Baran placed within them the first seeds of life.
Before they could kindle their creations, the Forgotten One discovered what they had done. Wounded beyond measure by the fact that they had neither told him nor thought to ask for his contribution to the creation, he confronted his mothers and demanded once again to be given his own, real responsibilities, and to be allowed to impart a gift upon the dormant creatures.
Whatever their reasons, I do not know, they refused him again. This time, rather than turning with more determination to his work, the Forgotten One snapped and swore to his mothers that if he would not be given a place amongst them, then he would take it. His rage darkened the sun and turned night to day, and the careful balance his mothers had cultivated over centuries was upset as the seasons twisted out of shape and into a confusing, chaotic mess.
The battle between the Forgotten One and the Four Beloved lasted generations, but they were able to strike him down and banish him to the Shimmering Wastes; a place of constant chaos created in part by his anger, perhaps a fitting prison for someone who had caused such tumult. As things settled down, the Four Beloved were finally able to give use stormheralds the first kiss of life, and we spread to all corners of the land.
Fearful of how things had turned out with their son, the Four Beloved resolved to remain at a distance from their creations and to offer only gentle guidance and protection to the young stormheralds. For better or worse, they would need to find their own paths through life - though would know the tales and teachings of the Four Beloved, and in birth and death know the embrace of Baran and Cemre to guide them to and from this world.
My people hold that whenever the moons or the suns grow dark and ringed with a fell flame, the seals binding the Forgotten One to the Wastes weaken, and he will give his terrible gift to those born in the shade. I… cannot say I approve much of the practice. Be kind to any young stormheralds you find wandering alone and without a name.
But that’s enough of my rambling for now. If you take anything from this old tale, it’s that a listener is a good thing to be; be considerate towards your friends and family.
Not that I mean to lecture, of course. Now, let’s get some music going…