Consider this first 'chapter' a prologue for the story. It was written first as a one-shot, but was continued in following chapters.

Grammar and spelling corrections are appreciated. Feedback is welcome.

Jordan Maron had once ruled a kingdom. He once ruled it from the top of his tree, a beautiful tree, the largest tree in the vast northern jungle, a tree named after his precious, fallen friend. He defended it with a sharp sword, the sharpest of blades, made of the slime of his fallen friend's kind. He comforted it with his voice, once a gift from a god that shared his empty eyes.

Now, that voice was a curse. His eyes were the mark of the god that he was born after.

So Jordan ran.

He ran from the world, from the friends that he had known and grown to love and care for. They had been his family, the only relatives he had ever known besides the god who gave him his eyes and voice. They had cared for him too, lifting him high on their shoulders when the world seemed drab and desolate, testing him so he could care for his kingdom as they cared for theirs.

They invited him to a gladiator-style, free for all, last-man-standing competition. The Games were supposed to be for fun and sport, a test of the competitors' skills. Jordan's odds were favored to reach the final duel. He was quick, he was precise, and he was silent. He was well-matched against his opponent, a man named Taylor who was careful, calculating, and tenacious. They had always been well-matched, and always rivals. Their final duel was supposed to be the example, the crest of all the final duels in all the Games. Yet, as always, their duel was never carried through.

Jordan had been careless, cocky. He had allowed Taylor's sword to slice through his red sunglasses, the signature of his character, and the protection for his wicked, glowing eyes. He had allowed Taylor and all the other lords, ladies, and knights of the lands to see his curse. He had allowed his own heart to shatter, just as Taylor shattered the frame of his sunglasses.

There had been no words. No jeers. No screams, neither of fear nor anger. The whole arena was silent as his eyes lit up like small half-moons in the midnight, dim torch-light of the stadium. Taylor was silent as he held the pieces of Jordan's sunglasses in his hand. Taylor and the audience wore shocked, fearful expressions as they recognized his face as the face of the devil.

Their years, their battles, and their words and thoughts with Jordan meant nothing when the face of the man they had grown to trust and love was a reflection of their greatest nightmare. The love and trust meant nothing to Jordan, either. In his empty eyes, their fear was greater than their words and thoughts for him.

Jordan took it back.

With one, miserable song, he took back the love, the blessings, and the joy they had for him and shackled it to his own. Then he took their anger, sadness, and agony and suffocated his heart with grief. He ran from the arena, clawing at his chest, burying their memories and feelings inside. He was gone from the stadium before they could see his face, before they could begin to know him again.

Jordan sang as he ran north. Kingdoms, rulers, subjects, and wanderers all forgot his name, his face, and his life. His grief grew, propelling him farther and faster as the life he once gave the land flowed out and back into him. His song grew stronger, his steps faster, and before the moon fell the next morning, he had passed the Wall in the North and reached the ends of the known world.

Then he sang again. The lands shrieked back, echoing the wrath, the lamentation, and the agony. Their mountains toppled, ground split, rivers and forests burned. The sky bled angry, screaming red. The fire and smoke of hell itself spilled into the lands, tainting them and remaking them according to his song.

The changed land gave him the wicked to build his kingdom, the cursed to serve his needs, and the tormented to carry out his will with sword, dagger, and bow. The unfortunate few crowned him on the throne of his cold, empty palace with clothes made of their guilt and regrets. These ghosts were freed, and sent out into the world, carrying his song and soul with them like a blessing.

They would be his dark apostles, his doomsayers, spreading the hatred, the sadness, and the pain across the land. Under their feet, hell would spread into the world, stealing back the life and love of the lands. It would take only years for the whole world to become ash and shadows.

With his song entombed in the hearts of his bards, what was left of Jordan Maron fell into deep slumber.

This was how the story went. This was the story the Sorcerer had to tell.

The Sorcerer's only wish was that the Far Lands were far behind his once-dead feet.