暗黑艾灵的兴起

Rise of the Dark Alin （译名：暗黑艾灵的兴起）
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来源	http://riseoflegends.com/worlds/Rise_of_the_Dark_Alin_Part1.htm http://riseoflegends.com/worlds/Rise_of_the_Dark_Alin_Part2.htm
授权协议	原作者保留权利

Rise of Legends™ boasts three completely unique races that you can lead to victory. In this section, we explore the industrious Vinci, the mystic Alin, and the enigmatic Cuotl. Delve into the characters and cultures that populate the world of Rise of Legends and learn about the stories behind the game.

Part 1

The city of Mezekesh shuddered on the night the Talisman fell from the sky. All the Alin cities shuddered on that night. Buildings crumbled, fires dimmed, and the tallest spire on the citadel at Azar Harif shattered, raining splinters upon the people below. Scorpions turned on their riders, and mantas fled their masters. Such were the reports from every corner of the Alin Kingdom, on that night when the blackest of skies was scarred with yellow firelight.

Such was the night that witnessed the death of Fassarri the Wise, King among the Alin.

As was my custom, I had spent the earlier hours of that evening walking along the outer walls of Mezekesh. It had been a ritual for me since my youth, a patrol of sorts, though nothing more than a superstitious habit, were I to speak truthfully. When I was still a boy, I took this patrol armed with little more than a stick. I fancied myself a Desert Walker in those days. That was before my gifts as a mystic were revealed, before the endless hours of training and study and practice within the schools of fire and sand, and eventually, glass.

As I gained these skills, my patrols continued. I bore no company during these treks around the perimeter of the city. I sought no comrades, I harbored no secret hopes for a chance encounter with a companionable stranger. I have known men like that, soldiers and mystics alike, men who seem to spend every odd moment looking behind them, on the off chance that their mask of duty has inspired someone with the desire to peer beneath. I am not such a man. In those days, I sought but one thing on my patrols. I sought an enemy.

The Alin Kingdom had no enemies. It hardly had nuisances. There were other peoples scattered about along the peripheries of our borders, to be sure, but these were not enemies, any more than a sand fly is enemy to a mountain. We were a Kingdom at peace, achingly, endlessly at peace. I was an Alin Mystic, and charged with the task of defending my Kingdom. I longed for a chance to do so.

There is a saying among the Alin: a wish may be stronger than the man who makes it. I have long since been cursed with a deep understanding of these words.

On that evening, I walked as I always did, and cast my accursed wish into the desolation of the sunset. Looking back, I would like to think that I felt a wrong thing, an odd feeling, any sense that would portend, in hindsight, of the horrible events that were to begin that night. But I did not. I walked my patrol, silently, brooding, and finding adversaries only in my imagination, I returned to the deeper night of my chambers in the Sand Spire.

I slept. And my wish was granted.

Part 2

“My King, consider how your father would have proceeded,” said Maruhm, dabbing at his pudgy face with the corner of an ornate sandworm cloth. He was sweating, as usual, though he seemed to be excelling at the task today.

I did not envy him his position, though I was only a heartbeat away from it. As High Mystic in the school of Sand magic, Maruhm was the only man alive who could give me a direct order. Aside from the King himself, that is. The Brat King, as they were calling him, very quietly, in the corridors and alleyways of the city.

Narsadi did not appear to take Maruhm’s suggestion to heart. He sat on his father’s throne—his¬ throne—and glared at his High Mystic of Sand. He did not look like a king. He barely looked like a boy playing at being king. He was a beautiful child, as his mother had once been, but his bearing lacked any hint of his father’s proud demeanor. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, his lower lip turned down from his upper. I have seen my share of children pouting, in markets and near the pools of the central plaza. Narsadi’s method was nearly theatrical. If he had not been King of all Alin, it would have been comical.

But the tension in the room was as solid as well-cast glass. What the child was asking for was lunacy, and the High Mystics all knew that to give in to such a request would only set a precedent that could lead the entire kingdom to ruin. Our history had enough examples of mad leaders to be proof of that.

I would like to say that I was relaxed, and unconcerned with the outcome of the debate. But I was not. For the King had asked me, specifically, to retrieve the fallen star.

I had thought, or hoped, that it had been some sort of childish prank. But Narsadi had been completely earnest that night five nights earlier, watching the heat leave the body of his father. The star that fell from the sky had portended his father’s death, he had claimed. He wished to have it retrieved, and brought to the city for the day of his ascension ceremony. A ceremony which, by custom, was to occur under the first full moon after the old King’s death. On the day of that council meeting, only seven nights remained before the full moon.

“I have no need to consider the judgment of a dead man,” Narsadi observed. “My father is no longer king, and I am. Mekarrah will do as I bid him. He will retrieve the fallen star for me, and he will do this by the day of my ascension ceremony.”

Maruhm began to protest again, and Iziik, of the school of Fire, looked to add her opinion as well. Narsadi silenced them both with a raised hand.

“This council is ended,” he proclaimed, making his voice artificially deep. The effect was preposterous, but I was not about to lead the room in laughter. Narsadi rose from his throne. The three High Mystics did the same. I, being a mere Mystic, had been standing already. I allowed the three High Mystics to leave, and turned to follow them out. Of the three, only Jiehl, of the school of Glass, had remained silent. He was a dullard, but perhaps more politically astute than the others.

“Mekarrah,” called the Brat King. “You will stay.”

I stopped, and turned, and bowed. The High Mystics left the room, and Narsadi and myself remained. It occurred to me that this child was capable of destroying everything his father had built, and that I, in turn, was capable of preventing it. His bodyguards would have provided no match for me, even without the element of surprise. The thought left nearly as quickly as it had emerged. Narsadi was my King.