Syvren
And so shall the doors of the forgotten prison be cast wide, the light of Anara’s grace a beacon to guide forth the lost. Those long forgotten once again shall breathe clear air and walk upon the solid earth.
-The Book of Two Truths
For a full day and night Syvren knelt in the dirt before the ruins of the fallen down fortress. Finally, he rose, lifting his blade high once again as it filled with the radiance of Anara. All about him, the gathered masses exulted. If his friends had been near, they alone would have seen what the others could not. His face belied his posture and his gesture, for instead of strength and conviction, he wore a look of resigned frustration.
As the initial tumult started to die down, a murmur began to sweep through the crowd at something beyond the standing figure. They turned, and there in the ruins of the fallen manse figures could be seen emerging. Some were on their feet, walking toward the bridge. Others still pulling themselves free of the rubble. They seemed to represent every known culture - and many more besides.
In the weeks that would follow, it became clear that Syvren was given over to his new name and new life. Where once he had tried to spend time among his friends, or with his late wife, he now most often forsook that company to go among those who came to worship, choosing from them individuals with the skills needed to organize and lead the rabble. Many of those freed from the mansion joined the throng, and a great number of them were people of some renown in their place and time grateful now to find new meaning in this strange time and place.
In addition to the general organizing of such a band, Syvren spent time each day speaking. His sermons, for indeed they are filled with religious zeal, warn of a war to come. When his sermons are finished, he moves among the people and in his footsteps miracles spread like fire across an open plain. A blind farmer regains his sight. A dying child awakes with strength in her limbs. A crippled soldier casts aside his cane and walks once more.
Those who witnessed these wonders wept, but those who did not scoffed. Skeptics and disbelievers, priests, healers, and men of learning came among the camp. Each determined to prove Syvren a false prophet. But then the skeptics became believers. The believers disciples. And the disciples carried the word beyond the rolling hills of Gallance, into every village and city their feet could reach.
What began with thirty and three prophets soon they numbered in the hundreds, and then the thousands. The word spread faster than even the pilgrims who carried it, passed along merchant routes, whispered over the decks of great ships, and carried in letters sealed with wax.
Anara has come again. Syvren has come.