Translating the Khazaran Records
[This is written as from the point of view of Lillyen Darkstrider. Sometimes it refers to an 'I,' the first person account of the Magi who penned the records.]
The scrolls are a miracle of preservation, having been enchanted to resist the wear and tear of time, and adverse conditions alike. Written, then preserved in abjuration. The language itself is a further puzzle, a script last spoken and written 2000 years ago. No matter how you mull over it, you could never directly figure out how you would say the words, only guess at. Reading however is assisted by your notes you took on the walls of the tomb in Westhills. It causes a time gulf even for elvish sensibilities, since elves only entered the World 3000 years ago, but it seems that Elvish as a language has borrowed some from the Khazaran It is a useful base for your translation efforts. After days of scrupulous reading, translating a letter and forming an alphabet like a puzzle, you’re able to translate the scroll crudely into Elvish, and further into Common. The first thing the scrolls teach you was some of the Khazaran culture, and who the writers were. These scrolls were authored by Magi of Tŵr y Syllu, and their tower stood in the city of Dinas yr Môrglas. These Magi were some of the most powerful magic users the World has seen, and the feats they detail in the scrolls, the spells they cast all run wild above your head. They detail they were chosen of the Gods, names of Gods that you don’t recognize; Arglwydd du, translated directly to Black Lord Crafangau ac’Adenydd y-Nefoedd, Heaven’s Claws and Wings Symffonïau’r Creu, Symphony of Creation Llygad y Porth, The Eye of the Gate Trychineb seren, Star Fall You would recall something about Starfall, as that is how a particular location in the Sea of Fallen Stars is described. Appearing as a colossal whirlpool, glowing orange-red with residual heat, the namesake Fallen Star still resides there in the middle of the sea, an incredibly dangerous place to visit. These authors were so old that they referenced it happening centuries ago from their timescale. Histories of a long dead empire cover the pages, myths, legends, even down to how people lived. The last pages however begin with the words of abjuration magic, Draconic script, the spell that protects these scrolls from the elements and time. These begin with lamentation, of the doom that has beset the whole World. Their city razed, the tower crumbled and collapsed, but some mystic wards maintained the halls for a short while after. It is with this time the last Magi pens what happens. It began with the red moon, Char, hanging full and angry in the sky, bathing the land in an ever present bloody glow. Even during the day it was visible and hung in the sky. Getting to the City of Brass was easy at this time, the magical strain was minimal. Then the World quivered. The ground shook for hundreds of miles around, like the intermittent banging of a great drum that is the World’s crust. Those that lived near the modern Volhynia Mountains were hit the worst, the cities succumbing to the earthquakes first. The days got hotter as time went on, drier, and fires would spontaneously break out. Often the sun would take on a hateful orange color from the smoke in the air. The Druids of the Land were desperately trying to keep the forests and plains from burning up, and it was the druids themselves who were the first to despair. One fateful day, as the sun hung low in the sky, standing atop the tower I could see it rushing towards us. A great white wave of air rushed across the fields and hills, and it was as if the World went quiet as I watched it race towards us. It hit us with the loudest bang ever heard, a terrible crashing of air blowing past and blasting less stable buildings and trees to the ground. Then I could see the black column reaching into the sky, an immense plume that only grew with every moment past, widening and climbing. It glowed with a subtle red, as a lightning storm was tangled amongst the choking smoke. The lush Cormanthor Forest that covered hundreds of leagues east of the Mountains was the first to go, and its glow could be seen from afar. The entire woods burned to nothing. The lands around the Volhynia Mountains were torched with falling pyroclastic ash, burning for days on end, be it grassy plains, or verdant forest, or cities full of people. The smoke cloud devoured the sky, and the blackest night fell upon the World with no stars, no moon, only the light of lashing lightning and immense fires. Then the Phoenix arrived. As night turned to day, no difference to be found as the sun was blocked out, another sun rose coming from the north. Glowing blindingly bright, it beat its flaming wings and left a trail of scorched earth in its wake, fire so hot it melted steel and stone, evaporated lakes, turned the land itself to blazing black ruin. The Phoenix arrived at Dinas yr Môrglas, and it hit like a comet. It needed only to pass over the city twice before everything was destroyed. Its shockwave flattened the buildings, and the rubble blazed. The Tŵr y Syllu buckled and crumpled, with the magic wards and quick spells keeping some small parts of the structure intact, saving our lives for the moment. The Phoenix burned thousands of leagues of land, wiping the World clean, before disappearing. The sky was dark for months, the World was cold and those that did survive soon succumbed to starvation. Only the most select few, huddled deep in caverns barely scraped a living, emerging to a blasted landscape. Snow in summer, glaciers in the winter for years thereafter. And when the sun finally shone, it was a pitiful red circle, a bruised eye in the sky. The Sea itself became a grey slurry, thick with fallen ash that made the ocean into a briny thick ocean of sludge. As for the Magi of Tŵr y Syllu, survival in the dark hovel lasted for months, until the wards finally failed. Food and water could be conjured, but life amid the dark crumbling stones was hardly worth living. They recorded their knowledge, recounting what had happened, knowing one day the wards would fail, and the rocks would fall. It would take hundreds of years to fully recover. To this day, the Bay of Ashes recalls the grey ashen sea. The@Black sit atop what was once the Cormanthor Forest, forever scarred into black sand for leagues upon leagues. And the Khazar Empire, the greatest the World had ever seen, was smote off its face. The Black Ash Days were 1300 Before Convergence, to 1250 Before Convergence.
The scrolls are a miracle of preservation, having been enchanted to resist the wear and tear of time, and adverse conditions alike. Written, then preserved in abjuration. The language itself is a further puzzle, a script last spoken and written 2000 years ago. No matter how you mull over it, you could never directly figure out how you would say the words, only guess at. Reading however is assisted by your notes you took on the walls of the tomb in Westhills. It causes a time gulf even for elvish sensibilities, since elves only entered the World 3000 years ago, but it seems that Elvish as a language has borrowed some from the Khazaran It is a useful base for your translation efforts. After days of scrupulous reading, translating a letter and forming an alphabet like a puzzle, you’re able to translate the scroll crudely into Elvish, and further into Common. The first thing the scrolls teach you was some of the Khazaran culture, and who the writers were. These scrolls were authored by Magi of Tŵr y Syllu, and their tower stood in the city of Dinas yr Môrglas. These Magi were some of the most powerful magic users the World has seen, and the feats they detail in the scrolls, the spells they cast all run wild above your head. They detail they were chosen of the Gods, names of Gods that you don’t recognize; Arglwydd du, translated directly to Black Lord Crafangau ac’Adenydd y-Nefoedd, Heaven’s Claws and Wings Symffonïau’r Creu, Symphony of Creation Llygad y Porth, The Eye of the Gate Trychineb seren, Star Fall You would recall something about Starfall, as that is how a particular location in the Sea of Fallen Stars is described. Appearing as a colossal whirlpool, glowing orange-red with residual heat, the namesake Fallen Star still resides there in the middle of the sea, an incredibly dangerous place to visit. These authors were so old that they referenced it happening centuries ago from their timescale. Histories of a long dead empire cover the pages, myths, legends, even down to how people lived. The last pages however begin with the words of abjuration magic, Draconic script, the spell that protects these scrolls from the elements and time. These begin with lamentation, of the doom that has beset the whole World. Their city razed, the tower crumbled and collapsed, but some mystic wards maintained the halls for a short while after. It is with this time the last Magi pens what happens. It began with the red moon, Char, hanging full and angry in the sky, bathing the land in an ever present bloody glow. Even during the day it was visible and hung in the sky. Getting to the City of Brass was easy at this time, the magical strain was minimal. Then the World quivered. The ground shook for hundreds of miles around, like the intermittent banging of a great drum that is the World’s crust. Those that lived near the modern Volhynia Mountains were hit the worst, the cities succumbing to the earthquakes first. The days got hotter as time went on, drier, and fires would spontaneously break out. Often the sun would take on a hateful orange color from the smoke in the air. The Druids of the Land were desperately trying to keep the forests and plains from burning up, and it was the druids themselves who were the first to despair. One fateful day, as the sun hung low in the sky, standing atop the tower I could see it rushing towards us. A great white wave of air rushed across the fields and hills, and it was as if the World went quiet as I watched it race towards us. It hit us with the loudest bang ever heard, a terrible crashing of air blowing past and blasting less stable buildings and trees to the ground. Then I could see the black column reaching into the sky, an immense plume that only grew with every moment past, widening and climbing. It glowed with a subtle red, as a lightning storm was tangled amongst the choking smoke. The lush Cormanthor Forest that covered hundreds of leagues east of the Mountains was the first to go, and its glow could be seen from afar. The entire woods burned to nothing. The lands around the Volhynia Mountains were torched with falling pyroclastic ash, burning for days on end, be it grassy plains, or verdant forest, or cities full of people. The smoke cloud devoured the sky, and the blackest night fell upon the World with no stars, no moon, only the light of lashing lightning and immense fires. Then the Phoenix arrived. As night turned to day, no difference to be found as the sun was blocked out, another sun rose coming from the north. Glowing blindingly bright, it beat its flaming wings and left a trail of scorched earth in its wake, fire so hot it melted steel and stone, evaporated lakes, turned the land itself to blazing black ruin. The Phoenix arrived at Dinas yr Môrglas, and it hit like a comet. It needed only to pass over the city twice before everything was destroyed. Its shockwave flattened the buildings, and the rubble blazed. The Tŵr y Syllu buckled and crumpled, with the magic wards and quick spells keeping some small parts of the structure intact, saving our lives for the moment. The Phoenix burned thousands of leagues of land, wiping the World clean, before disappearing. The sky was dark for months, the World was cold and those that did survive soon succumbed to starvation. Only the most select few, huddled deep in caverns barely scraped a living, emerging to a blasted landscape. Snow in summer, glaciers in the winter for years thereafter. And when the sun finally shone, it was a pitiful red circle, a bruised eye in the sky. The Sea itself became a grey slurry, thick with fallen ash that made the ocean into a briny thick ocean of sludge. As for the Magi of Tŵr y Syllu, survival in the dark hovel lasted for months, until the wards finally failed. Food and water could be conjured, but life amid the dark crumbling stones was hardly worth living. They recorded their knowledge, recounting what had happened, knowing one day the wards would fail, and the rocks would fall. It would take hundreds of years to fully recover. To this day, the Bay of Ashes recalls the grey ashen sea. The@Black sit atop what was once the Cormanthor Forest, forever scarred into black sand for leagues upon leagues. And the Khazar Empire, the greatest the World had ever seen, was smote off its face. The Black Ash Days were 1300 Before Convergence, to 1250 Before Convergence.
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