Chapter Text
Kikujin’s notes: this record is an extremely old one, dated to about 15 years after the Katharterio rains, if the author is to be believed. This is the only remaining document that has been found so far from that time period, and so provides extremely valuable, albeit limited, context into life from that era. The original text resides in Amonlogia, in the former Kyma hold, and is thought to have been used by the current Amonlogian rulers to falsify their authenticity as rulers, given the conveniently similar history they had with the original Amonlogian pirates. The suggestion that this script was written later has been raised, but Apolitoma dating and analysis of the script, which was written in a proto-Suidulasian language, confirm its authenticity. Permission to copy this script was given to the Institute by Duke Rochalizo Apo Amonlogia in the year 1426 Talos Vrochi/year 120 of the Sand Exile.
Scroll 1: Introduction and The Memory of A Father
To the Old Recordskeeper on the island:
Greetings, and may the heavens look down upon you with grace, collector of stories. My name is Kafémávro Amon-Logia, and my life has been lived for 14 years. I regret that we could not meet in person, but as I am sure you have been informed by my father, I am unable to leave my bed due to critical illness, the product of years and years of lean times. I am an archivist, like Him, whom you met two years before the world ended. I pray for this record of my life to be safe with you, so that it may help future generations. Since I cannot meet you to tell it over, since neither you nor I can travel, I write this record of my past and my clan for you to preserve. If I live long enough, I will write more records going into more detail, but I fear my time is approaching rapidly.
My record starts before I was born, in a village called Anámnisi in the country of Patrída. This was the home of my father, Sir Prásinos Amon, a minor noble. The village was modest and traditional, having little of the advanced technology that the grand cities in other countries boasted, but it was a happy, peaceful village, situated between ancient oak forests and the banks of the great river Nótos, which flows from the hills down into the Southern Sea. The villagers farmed, crafted, and traded during the day, and sung, dance, and held festivals in the cool, dewdropped moonlight. My father was considered a kind and just ruler, and our village prospered more than any other governed by the house of Amon.
When my father reached the age of twenty-five, it was time for him to get married. He had been in love with a commoner from the village by the name of Erythrós for quite some time, and their wedding drew in guests from all over our country. I am told that the celebration lasted from one sunset until the next. After the ceremony, my parents left Anámnisi to go on a honeymoon, before resuming the duties of caring for the village. The House of Amon owned a retreat in the middle of the woods a day's travel downriver of Anámnisi, and so they chose to go there, taking just a rowboat and a week's worth of food.
On the fourth night of their honeymoon, my parents were watching the stars from the roof of the estate. This story is more my father’s than my own, so I will tell it through his words: “We were lying on the rooftop in silence, watching hazy clouds cross the familiar constellations. I was half asleep, the warm summer air having made me drowsy, when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a shooting star. In Patrída, shooting stars are seen as an omen of misfortune. To us, it means that the Gods have become angry and are sending a warning before they bring down fire on the sinners. A more religious man could tell you what sins could have possibly caused the omen to come true. I can only tell you that it did.
“After the first shooting star came another, and after that three more, and yet more after that. I lost count around thirty. That cut our honeymoon short. We needed to return to stand with our village against whatever threats the heavens might send our way. We packed as much as we could and got in the rowboat. We rowed and rowed through the night, hands blistering, the last of the shooting stars flashing the shoreline at us, the oak and willow now appearing to us as dark and sinister. Dawn broke, and we rowed. Noon passed, and we rowed. Towards midafternoon, we arrived at the break in the forest that announced the edge of the village…and to our horror, there was a gaping channel of sand, a mile wide, passing straight through where Anámnisi had stood. I was so shocked that I just stood there on the boat for several minutes, at the drying banks of the Nótos, draining into this new sand channel. Then I heard a noise from the woods. A group of evacuees had managed to escape the destruction and had seen our boat. They said not ten minutes before we arrived, a behemoth monster had come by, swallowed the village whole, and continued as if nothing happened, leaving but sand in its wake. I cannot begin to describe how much of a failure I felt like at that point. I had failed to be there for my village at their time of need, and as a result, 547 people lost their lives. I could name every last one of them, and sometimes I chant them to myself when I need a reminder of the responsibility I hold. However, as much as I felt like wallowing in grief and guilt, I still owed my protection to the 9 refugees before me, my wife, and our unborn child. I told everyone to get in the rowboat, and we would go to the capital city, Protévousa, to get aid from the king. With the river quickly running dry, its course cut off, we set out downstream as fast as we could.
“Unfortunately, luck was not on our side. Just a few minutes later, we heard a loud noise, like that of a whale. Soon, over the horizon appeared the monster from before, a floating, whale-like creature, terrible and awe-inspiring, which we now have come to call the Nous. It had looped around, turning Southward, and, in the pursuit of larger clusters of lives to fill its enormous belly, did not notice us. We were lucky to not have gotten swallowed by it, although we felt the full brunt of the dust and whirlwinds it spewed. We did not know it at the time, but it had its eyes on a much larger target than us-the capital to which we were headed.
“With the riverbed mostly dry, we got off the boat and walked on foot. Unfortunately, no matter which way we went, eventually we found our route blocked by sand channels. We were forced to conclude that we were stranded on an island in what was slowly becoming the Sea of Sand. We discussed as a group what to do next. Some suggested trying to settle on this island, but it was poor in resources, and we would not be able to do anything except extend our deaths by a few months. We noticed a piece of driftwood floating, just barely, on the sand, and decided that our best bet was to try and brave the Sand Channels until we could make it to the capital. Solemnly, we gathered what food we could, and brought our boat down the side of the island onto the Sea. We noticed that the island was quickly crumbling, and the falling rocks were sinking deep into the Sea. I decided that we had made the right choice abandoning the island, and that decision has been proven correct, given how in just a few short years, the crisscrossed channels have eroded the land around it into a continuous Sea. I doubt anything is left of that island, save maybe a rocky spit of land to serve as its gravestone.
“We set the boat on the sand, and to our dismay, it started to sink slightly. But with enough labor, we were able to bail out enough sand to stave off sinking. By having half of our group constantly bailing and the other half constantly rowing, we were able to make some small progress. Thus began our grueling trip to the Capital-one which took three years and caused the deaths of many of my precious friends.”