An excerpt from the journal of an Andorran refugee….
Tonight, we gather around the campfire to tell stories, as our ancestors have done for countless generations and, Fáma willing, as our descendants will do long after we are gone. Perhaps they will even tell our story. But what will they say? Will they talk of heroes who, against all odds, preserved the last of our peoples? Or will they talk of cowards who abandoned their home? Maybe we are both. There are so few of us left who know the truth of it.
It began in the mountains, when the heroes of Andorra made the treacherous journey to the Pantheon of the Gods. There, they found the mighty Uhtred bound and confined. With honeyed words, he bid them to strike away his chains. And they did, for they knew not what he truly was. A destroyer. A desecrator. A demon. For good reason did the followers of Mordan, Thairin, Dunduin, Fáma, Zanfriel and Maeve imprisoned him long ago. This we learned far too late.
It began slowly, for Uhtred is patient in his fury. But in time, all of Andorra felt his wrath. On the cliffs of North Haven, beneath the great tree tops of Whiteridge, along the Gallican shores, even up into the mountains of Vinterheim, the land beneath our feet began to weaken and crumble. Great earthquakes shook our cities to the ground. Daldinia was the first to fall, and many others not long after. How do you fight an enemy you cannot see, who is as large and as powerful as the earth?
We prayed. To the Hearth Fáma, to the mighty golems Thairin and Dunduin, to any god who would listen. And to those who claim to have received answers, the message was clear: run.
And so we did. A great armada of ships carried the people from the shores of Andorra out onto the open ocean. And though we had suffered so much already, Maeve, guardian of the ocean, was not kind to us. For some time, the fleet travelled, battling storm after storm, but even our finest navigators and sailors could not keep our ships together. One by one, ship after ship, they fell away and when the storm cleared, we were but one vessel. Battered and broken, the K.S. Logan limped her way here, to an island unknown to us.
It is a sorry tale. But with land, comes hope. Hope that we have finally travelled beyond the reach of Uhtred’s grasp. Hope that we may yet make a home for ourselves here. And so we have named this place Eilan Aerin, the Island of Hope.
That is the truth of it. That is our story. But no matter how it is told by those who come after us, there is one thing that should be said. For in every retelling, there should be a warning. That warning is thus:
If Uhtred comes to your land… run.
Credit to: Little Blue - Jaska Du Bráth
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