Bontella

Prologue

One Evening on Faasim Cliff

Big green eyes looked up; evening gray clouds solemnly spread across the darkened blue sky. He did not wipe the tears that collected in the corner of his eyes, tears that made his green pupils shine green-gray; they rolled down his cheeks. A narrow, orange glow from the faraway falling sun sliced through the sky, cutting a deep scar into the atmosphere.

“It is all over, God… For me, at least, it is all over,” he said aloud, eyes fixed upon the heavens in hopes that someone, somewhere was listening.

The air became suffused with a cold wind, and the orange glow from the sun spread out into a haze of warm colors. He had walked from his village, only a few minutes away, to the cliff’s edge where he now stood. The little Fasmer had moved past the thin, green trees that surrounded his small village, stepping flatly with wide feet. During his walk the air seemed warmer to him than now, for the trees had sheltered him from the cold. But here, at the silent cliff’s edge, there were no trees. The soft soil of the forest floor was marked with large footprints, footprints that led from the village through the trees to Faasim Cliff.

Faasim Cliff is rather well known to different races of the forest Shea as a landmark where that tiny, obscure Fasmerian village is located; the name of the cliff is obviously of Fasmerian origin. Fasmers are not spoken of much, for no widely known battles or events have been attached to the Fasmers, and what little is spoken of them has to do with their infamous penchant for thievery. And some, the Gnomes for instance, because they had “dealt” with them before, know of a continuing animosity between the Fasmerian village and Bontella, also a tiny village, the inhabitants of which are even less remarkable.

I know this because I am a Bontellion.

Yes, my village is still tiny and considered obscure to those who have heard of it, but it lies at the center of this account. And in case you have never heard of it, you will become somewhat familiar with its customs and character and, to a lesser extent, the customs and character of the other small villages and races of Western Shea by the time you turn the last page of this historical account.

I believe all races must read this story, and thus I am writing this in a language that seems to be emerging as the common tongue in this area of Shea, a language we call En, since less than a dozen creatures outside of Bontella understand Bontellion. I sit here in my large but cozy chair, in a room far from anywhere important, a small warm space set against a cold and wet night outside, writing this historically accurate account to bring repute to my race and to do justice to the great Bontellion heritage and culture. Bontellions are a peaceful clan who generally prefer the comforts of home to the travails of the road. Now I’ve never traveled beyond Bontella and the beautiful, deep, and dark forest of Shea that surrounds and protects us, but I’ve always felt a calling to, a less than fashionable trait inherited from my parents.

More about your capable host as we progress.

For the moment, let it suffice that this story will make clear the unusual events of the not too distant past, bring to light my personal origin, and give many races a true account of just what happened. For it all centered on my small, quaint, and peaceful village, when our world was almost brought to rubble by a string of cataclysmic and terrible events that most knew little of, heretofore a deeply misunderstood chapter of our world’s history.