Library Tunnels | The Lucent Marches

I'm starting a new series of posts focusing on the lore of the world of Canticle for my patrons in the Scribe tier and above. They will be written in the form of extracts from mostly historical (and perhaps pseudo-historical) tomes that can be found in the library of the Lucent Priory.

The First Lucent March
695 - 701 S.A.

From "The Eastward Migrations of the Fallen Peoples of Archantum" by Father Suvius:

The snows have melted on the 695th year since the Asunder.

The long journey along the Vein is behind us now. What awaits, I do not know. The dreams have been coming more strongly in this place they call Verdune, the Green Continent, even here at the foot of it.

The land we find ourselves in is hilly and temperate. The people who live in this former imperial periphery have done well for themselves, enjoying saltfish and olives and sweet wines while the rest of us starve and drown and flee. They call themselves Burgunds, and they seem to me silver-tongued and soft. I can smell Saheilan vapors on them; their moans of delight as they suckle on their figs and lemon cakes twist my stomach into knots. Merciful Elythea, banish these dark thoughts. These people have been nothing but hospitable to us. They grant us passage over their hills to the great forest in the east. Everything to that tree line is their land, they say, but beyond that is no concern of theirs. They eye the red dragon overhead with some trepidation, and I cannot but laugh at my own earlier reticence. The boy - no, not a boy anymore at all - the man who speaks to it might be the only reason we can cross out of that ruin we once called Empire.

Little do they know this dragon is of smoke, not fire. One can only wonder what they would do if they knew the truth.

The Second Lucent March
702 - 711 S.A.

From "Twelve Studies on Ashblight" by Brother Narah:

The number of patients exhibiting symptoms has risen recently with the winter winds. This would suggest my earlier theory was wrong; whatever caused this was not in Ashfall (or whatever the Verdish called this place before we arrived) but deeper in the forest. Their thorn-witches meet in secret under moonlight and they blow poisonous ash in our direction, hoping it will dim the light of Elythea.

Most of the old wooden structures, or what was left of them, have been replaced by good limestone from the mountains to the south. The industriousness of our people gives form to this wilderness, just as Caolan Wyrmfriend gives form to our ambitions. The man wishes to be king. To anyone who has been paying attention, this should come as no surprise. Well, let him, I say. Surely throughout history, there have been kings who have done much less for their people. But the man is afflicted by a stubbornness I have found to be quite prevalent in the young. He has decided to stay here and launch campaigns further in. I have tried reasoning with him, told him everything I know about this disease; I even told him to think of his infant daughter. But my expertise falls on deaf ears. Instead, he listens to Suvius, that ink-stained charlatan.

Then again, I am no king. And so, at least for the moment, it seems that our people will remain here, envisioning our future through smoke and ash.

The Third Lucent March
712 - 724 S.A.

From "The Northern Raze" by Queen Aithna I:

The sea itself is burning.

Sarosh flies overhead, screeching his hollow screech, but in it, I sense some joy for the first time since the death of my father. What does it feel like to see the fire you gave up? I look to the skies and I feel sorry for the beast. Nothing more than a symbol now, a naked name. And I can commiserate, though as I look to the fires that spring from my command, I can only conclude that, perhaps, I am the closest thing to a dragon in the world now.

I have set the coast ablaze from Ashfall in the south to the northern end of Verdune. If their forest is so impenetrable, then I shall cut off their access to the ocean, at least. Suvius lives only in his spasmic dreams now, waking up every now and then with some cryptic line. "North," he whispers. He no longer scribes much. He needs apprentices, he says. Five of them, to teach them what he knows, for in his arrogance, none could learn everything he knows. I have ordered the men to go in search of the cleverest of us to bring to him, to teach them what he can before his life snuffs out like a candle.

This thing he is composing, it takes too long. My patience is wearing thin. I look to the east, to these dense dark woods, and all I see are golden fields of wheat. I will give him another year, and no more.

It will be my 14th birthday tomorrow. Perhaps I will celebrate with a bonfire.

The Fourth Lucent March
724 - 727 S.A.

From "The Fourth Lucent March" by Sister Callista:

I made the right choice staying here. It is a place of such tranquility as I have never known. The Queen has left Priory Isle with the tome and the Chanter Doromund, and gone back to the continent. She builds a great city of stone on the western coast in honor of her father just as she burns what's left of the forest to the east.

I met a group of refugees as I was walking the shores just before dawn. They had reached the isle on a makeshift raft, emaciated and burnt. Even so, their greatest despair came from the knowledge of what they had done to the tree to make the raft. They tried very hard to hide their markings. I pretended not to see them. All I could do is give them what I could from the cellar and tell them to go to the north woods, away from the construction and the quarry.

They told me of the fires. Of the fire burning, but leaving no ash behind. Just as the old man said it would. Fertile fields now cover the lands of Verdune. No, the lands of Calador. Our people will be fed well for the first time since the Asunder. I pray to Saheila every night, and I ask the same question: "Will these warm loaves of bread ever lose their bitter taste?"

The shadows watch me silently as I take another bite.