The Druids of Akabar

The world of Lonne is deeply old. The Druids of Akabar say the earth remembers much, though they tell little. Lonne is separated into three distinct continents and on each continent lays a small remnant of civilisation. The Druids say remnant, not I, and when asked a remnant of what they merely smile sadly, like an old man or woman pitying the road a younger relative must soon take. These three continents are home to eight Kings, and three Senates and a multitude of tribesmen ruled over by brutal Warlords whose reign is inevitably short. Each distinct country has its own way in culture, in language and other aspects, often only colliding in blood and battle. Yet, in hushed tones the Druids speak of one thing that has brought them all together through the centuries, perhaps the millennia, one dark secret buried in the pages of history.
They tell me of King Gallingbard of Selyerie in the East, who in the second century rained fire on the cities of his enemies, and was murdered in his sleep by his closest kin. I am shocked; I see no history books, no books of any sort, I did not think the Druids bothered themselves about the petty squabblings of humans. They tell me of Heronomus the Mad who sunk the fourth continent of Lonne under the ocean in the fifth century, killing countless millions. I am uneasy now. Only the most learned of Academics know of such a thing. All the moisture has been sucked from the air, and I dab at my face as they go on. They tell me of Avilander Lex Terylis who proclaimed himself Emperor of Lonne not a thousand years ago this day, and of his assassination, but no, not assassinated, he boiled alive in his own skin, and I see him writhing in the most extreme agony upon the floor of his bedchamber, and I cannot doubt it, for the Druids do not lie. Now they speak as one, and yet I must wonder if they speak at all, if perhaps I do not have audience with a much greater power.
They speak again; they speak of a time before Terylis, before the last continent of Lonne was lost, before even recorded history itself. I stand in a majestic white city, nestled in a Valley named 'The Arm of Creation', a city truly at one with the Earth, the single jewel in the crown of Lonne. A city made of living white stone, perfectly white, and moulded into the most beautiful buildings, buildings of sensuous curves, swooping rooftops and serene archways. I watch the people pass, blissfully oblivious, strange to my eye in some fashion I cannot place, yet they are beautiful, and I cannot help but weep for them. Somehow I know, and I turn as the air itself seems to boil, and the people are no more and the buildings begin to warp and in the distance I watch as the lands all around the city are churned to ash and all this in but a heartbeat, and I scream, somewhere I scream at them. This is too much; this is not what I wanted. But mercilessly they push me on, and now I stand outside a small building, and I look around and see that all of that beautiful pearly white stone is warped, twisted, and seems to undulate out from this spot all around me in a manner sickening to the eye. I know I must enter, I know this is the end of my journey, and I shake as my feet carry me through the entranceway, and I stop. I stare aghast, frozen in horror as it turns its attention to me. As it washes over me I scream and fall to the ground, clawing at my body, at my very soul and I feel the bile rise in my throat.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes!" I scream hoarsely, "Please, make it stop," I plead, "I understand... just make it stop..."
Suddenly I feel myself pulled away, like a single renegade grain plucked from the maelstrom of the Sands of Time, and placed back where it belongs once more.
"I understand," I wept as I lay curled on the monastery floor, clutching my stomach where there remained a feeling of the most awful, inescapable dread.
"I understand..." I murmured, as beautiful oblivion found me, and I slept.

My relationship with the Druids has become strained at best. It has been several days since my experience, and I am weak, almost as if my strength has been sapped by illness, and yet I regain my stamina remarkably quickly. Perhaps it came about by what the Druids did to me, or perhaps... but no, that is a foolish thought. I lie bedridden, and they tend to me, they give me food and water, they are courteous, yet distant. Although it is hard to tell under their great earthy brown robes, their faces obscured by their hoods, it seems they are almost ashamed of what they did to me. As if they consider it a regretful necessity, and my presence an uncomfortable reminder. My time spent in this small stone room is torture of another kind. Immobile with nothing to occupy my thoughts, they cannot help but stray towards what I saw, what was shared with me. As I lie in this dark, gloomy little room, I cannot not help but think; why?
The Druids were legendary for their great knowledge, yet even more so for their protectiveness of it. Many Kings and great men had come to Akabar seeking knowledge, and most had been turned away empty handed. Why share with me, a lowly Academic, little more than a glorified clerk in truth. Gallingbard, Heronomus, Terylis, and perhaps countless others, all connected by one black secret, yet why for the love of all the Gods plague me with such knowledge? Suddenly I felt ashamed. I prize knowledge! I hold the truth and a dedication to what is right and good above all other things! What had they done to me that I now regretted knowing the truth, no matter how terrible it might be?
Yet terrible indeed though it was, what had the connection between those three great men of the history books to do with anything? I said I’d understood, and I thought I had. But it seemed foolish to believe the Druids had told me so I could go back and scribble it in some journal to be forgotten or ridiculed. There must be more to come… Well, they would be damned if they thought they were going to subject me to that again! Looking around me suddenly the small stone room seemed much more like a cell. Then again, I suppose I could hardly stop them.

The Druid stood before me, the monastery of Akabar rising up behind him. At least, it seems to be a man. The Druids all wore simple, thick brown robes and great hoods, and in truth it is almost impossible to tell any of them apart.
I should leave now. Turn, walk away and forget all this. But he knows I won't, knows I can't. Curse them all!
"What happened to me...?” I faltered, "Was it... was it what you did to me or..." trailing off, I stare up at the hooded figure, searching for some reaction on its shadowy features.
"It was not us," the Druid replies in a deep, hypnotic voice.
"So... so what? I wasn't really their, was I?" I ask, almost pleading now, "Or else... or else what happened to all those people, it would have happened to me too. How could it have been anything but you!?"
The Druid looks at me for several moments, before replying slowly, as if talking to a child, "You want me to tell you it did not really happen. I cannot. I think you merely look for some way to deny what was placed in front of your very eyes." He continues sternly, "You have been granted what few will ever see; a memory from the great Mother Lonne Herself. Though it be terrible, you must treasure it." He hesitates, and then continues once more, "As for what happened to you... we underestimated it. It is as you said, you were not truly their... yet somehow it found you. And now it knows you," the Druid shudders visibly.
"What do you mean by 'it'?" I ask feebly.
"You know," he replies simply. "Now hear this Brother; it knows you, that which is most terrible and unnamed knows you. It will seek to control you, or to kill you. Whether or not you choose to believe, the great Mother Lonne has set you on a path. Now come, there is one thing more I must show you..."