January 26, TA 3019/AD 1200

Krakow

Leszek the White, High Duke of Poland, knelt before the altar of God. A pious man (or rather, pious boy; he was not more than 17), he had come to Wawel Cathedral seeking council from the Lord. The Cathedral had always brought him comfort. For more than a century, it had been the beating heart of the Polish branch of the Faith. It was here that Kings (or, in Poland's case, High Dukes) were coronated, and at the end of their reign were laid down among their forebears.

The history of Poland was all around Leszek, in fact. Wawel Hill, upon which the Cathedral rested, was a living testament to the legacy that he now upheld. It was here that the earliest settlement of his people's ancestors was built, here that legend said the mythical King Krakus had slain the great dragon Smok Wawelski by feeding it a poisoned lamb (who's bones were said to now be displayed within the Cathedral), here that the first crowned King of Poland, Boleslaw I the Brave, had established his keep. Here, upon this hill, all of Polish history sat on display.

That history weighed heavily on Leszek. A mere matter of months he had held the throne, being installed by the machinations of various minor nobles and clergymen in the place of his uncle Mieszko, and a calamity unprecedented in Polish history was dropped upon him quite literally out of the sky.

A great storm had been seen to the south, lighting cackling out of the sky, thunder sounding across the plains, snow so thick that nothing beyond the edge of the storm could be seen. The earth itself had trembled as the storm continued on, shaking like a leaf in the wind. When the tremors had finally stopped, the storm had blown north across the plains. Luckily, the lightning seemed to have been spent, and all that Krakow received was a fair few inches of snow.

But when the people of Krakow saw what was behind the storm, fear welled up within them, and uncertainty ruled their hearts. Now, where there had once been nothing but open plains, great mountains now rose out of the ground, dark and foreboding in the appearance, as if some malevolent force hid behind them.

In the day since the storm, some had come to the city from the countryside further south. These riders had been sent by various village heads, requesting the aid of the High Duke. They spoke of a great Black Gate in the mountains, of a mountain that spewed fire beyond, of a Tower upon which a great burning eye gazed out upon them. Most disturbing of all were the stories of monsters, demons that had come out from the mountains and struck at small villages and left few, if any, alive. The messengers begged for aid.

Leszek wished he could give it to them, but there were far too many questions that were currently unanswered. The tales that the riders brought him he would have dismissed as paranoia, the dreams of scared and uneducated men, but they were far too numerous and far too consistent to ignore.

His advisers were less than helpful, each having a contradictory explanation for what was happening, every one more fantastic than the last. The priests were worse, many going through the streets, claiming that the End Times were upon them and that the people had to repent or risk damnation. There was unrest in the streets, and the city guards struggled to maintain order. Leszek was in well over his head.

And so Leszek the White, High Duke of Poland, prayed. In the Cathedral on Wawel Hill, surrounded by the legacy of all of Poland, with what seemed to be the weight of the world on his too-young shoulders, he prayed. He prayed for strength for the task that he knew lied ahead, he prayed for wisdom to choose right against whatever was to come, he prayed for courage against the fears that gnawed at his heart.

In the beating heart of Poland, Leszek the White prayed for the Lord to save him.

Seville

Far to Leszek's southwest, another Lord of Men was also praying, and for very similar reasons, although in a different way. He did not kneel before an altar, but instead stood on the battlements of his city. He recited the prayers laid down not by Jesus Christ and his Apostles, but those of the Prophet Muhammed. He was not silent and alone in his worship, as the High Duke of Poland was, but rather he shouted his prayers to the heavens, leading the men that stood besides him in calling upon Allah for strength and courage.

Muhammad al-Nasir was his name, and he was the Caliph of the Almohads. Two days before, there was little that troubled him. Seville was easily one of the safest cities in his domains. The ancient city was supposedly founded by the legendary Greek Hero Hercules himself, and it sat far from both the Christian Kingdoms that held northern Al-Andalus and the rival Muslim Banu Ghaniya Dynasty that probed at his borders in North Africa.

His father's victories against the Crusader states had brought peace to his realm. Despite the machinations of the distant Banu Ghaniya to seize his holdings in Tunisia, his lands prospered. Gold flowed through the markets and trade ports, knowledge through the schools and universities, and the people were happy.

That had all come crashing down the previous day. To the east, a great storm had raged, making the earth itself tremble with its ferocity. When the earth had stopped shaking, the storm had passed over the city, dropping a great amount of snow upon the city. But this was not what brought terror to the people of Seville.

To the east had been mostly flatlands with the occasional hill, country that much of the heartland of Al-Andalus resembled. What there hadn't been was a massive forest, reaching beyond the horizon to both the north and the south. As if the universe felt that the fear of an unknown forest taking the place of almost everything wasn't enough, there was an air of dread emanating from the dark and twisted trees, striking fear in the hearts of men. And just to make sure that the people of Seville were terrified, large parts of the forest were on fire.

Naturally, the people were afraid. Muhammad would be lying if he said that he wasn't as well. That first day, the citizenry had largely congregated in the mosques and other places that offered a sense of security. They had prayed in much the same way as Leszek the White did upon the Wawel Hill, kneeling silently before altars inside of the holy places. Then, there had been a sense of calm, that while the unknown was all around them they were not yet threatened.

But then the people from the east had come. They had started to arrive during the night, begging to be allowed within the city. They said that there were monsters in the forest, monsters that had began to come out across the countryside, slaughtering everything in their path. They spoke of great beasts, terrors like giant spiders and wild boars that could outrun horses.

Like Leszek, Muhammad would have ignored these reports, but for their number and consistency. He had put the city under lockdown, trying to head off any hysteria before it got completely out of hand. The guards of the city were mobilized, and soon Seville was crawling with troops. But still, the stories spread, and soon fear and uncertainty ruled. The people huddled in prayer, hiding away in either the mosques or their own homes, begging Allah for protection. Darkness had fallen upon the capital of the Almohads.

Dawn brought no relief. For when the sun rose, it brought with it naught but horror. With the first rays came warning of what was to come: inhuman shrieking and roaring sounded from the still-burning ruins of the forest, sounds that came from no known beast of the world. Gathering his men to the eastern wall of the city, Muhammad began to prepare for the worst.

What came was something he never could have prepared for. Giant spiders, hundreds of them, poured out of the forest, joined by twisted beasts that resembled, barely, such things as deer and wolves. They had been roused by the storm and the earthquake, and now struck out blindly, seeking to find food and shelter. The beasts of Mirkwood had stumbled into the outlying villages on their hunt, striking hard and fast, and now followed the survivors that had escaped them straight towards Seville.

And so Muhammad al-Nasir, Caliphate of the Almohads, stood on the walls of his city. Behind him were the terrified cries and desperate prayers of his people. To his side were fearful men, filled with dread at the great swarm of monsters that approached them. Before him were beasts from nightmare, creatures of hell that brought with them doom and despair. But the Caliph stood tall, raising his sword to the sky, calling his soldiers to stand to their posts, for Allah would not abandon them.

In the war between Europe and the Darkness, First Blood was about to be drawn.

Kiev

Rurik Rostislavich, Grand Prince of Kiev, was in a far better situation. The storm that had washed over his lands was far smaller than those that had brought great snowfalls to the heartlands of Europe, and had consequently done far less damage. The ancient trade city at the confluence of the Dnieper and Desna, heart of the Kievan Rus was largely untouched outside of all the snow that had to be cleared from the roads.

Still, the sense of dread and unrest that was now descending here too, although more as a thin mist than a thick fog. Relative to places such as Seville or Krakow, who had seen whole horizons change without explanation, the shift in the terrain around Kiev had been slight: a lone mountain, tall and mysterious, had fallen from the sky north of the city, bringing with it both a new tributary to the Dnieper and a long and narrow lake attached to said tributary. The terror that came with it was far less than that which came with the forest of Mirkwood, the Misty Mountains or the borders of Mordor.

Of course, Rurik had no way of knowing all this, and as far as he was concerned the people of Kiev were the most terrified in Europe. They demanded that their lord do something, anything, to give them comfort. In accordance with their wishes (and his own unanswered fears), he had called forth every wise man in the city to advise him.

The council that resulted was less than productive, going about as well as the ones called in Krakow, Savoy and a hundred other places across the continent. It fell into the usual pattern: the Holy Men prophesied about the end of the world, the learned men could offer no explanations and more questions were raised than were answered. After several hours of futile deliberations, Rurik realized that no answers were to be found within the halls of Kiev.

So now he called on his knights. If the wise had no knowledge for him, he would have to find knowledge himself. Assembling his bravest and strongest warriors, he prepared to march north. The people approved, joyful that their master was taking a proactive stance, and his call to arms was well answered. 300 in all was his company. More had come, but he had instead assigned many to the defense of the city, just in case.

And so, Rurik Rostislavich, Grand Prince of Kiev, rode north. He and his company followed the course of the new river, slowly working their way up the western bank. They moved slowly, wary of any and all potential threats, hands on the hilts of their blades, eyes scanning in all directions. The slightest sign of trouble was enough for the whole formation to be stopped, as it was understood by all that they were on unknown, and potentially hostile, ground. It was in this way that, as the column moved along the shore of the long lake, Rurik's company was brought to a halt, for the men on the right flank spotted something clearly unnatural.

For below the waters of the lake, something golden glistened.

Across Europe

Such patterns continued across the continent, especially in places that had been near the great storm: the people cowered in fear in the Churches and other Holy Places, the sudden changes to the world around them sowing terror in their hearts. They would plea with the local lords for protections, for knowledge, for anything that could sate their fears.

The lords, in turn, would gather their advisers, the local clergy, anyone that might possibly have the slightest idea of what was happening, calling them to come up with some plan of action. Inevitably, these meetings would break down, as no answers could be found among those gathered. From there, there were a handful of paths that one could take.

Some, such as Count Thomas of Savoy, unknowingly imitated Grand Prince Rurik, sending out scouts to survey the changed lands (although few rode out themselves, as Rurik had done), hoping to find answers. In a handful of terrifying instances, most commonly in outlying villages deep in the mountains, isolated and alone, the answers found the people, as orcs and other fell creatures descended upon them, slaughtering all in their path.

Most, however, simply prayed. They prayed in Churches, they prayed in homes, they prayed on street corners and in markets and on city walls. They prayed for guidance, they prayed for strength, they prayed for wisdom and knowledge and, above all, answers. The people of Europe prayed for the Lord to help them in the darkest of times. They sent up their fears and hopes and questions to God.

But only one man received an answer.

Rome

In Rome, life continued on. Here, there were no mysterious mountains on the horizon, no sudden storms or earthquakes, no dark forests or black gates. Here was peace and tranquility (as long as one avoided the seedier parts of the ancient city). The living heart of both Europe and God's Kingdom beat on, seemingly undisturbed by the calamity spreading across the rest of the continent.

The key word being seemingly. Deep in the heart of the Holy City, specifically at the Lateran Palace, once could find people engaging in similar amounts of frenzied activity as in Krakow, or maybe even Seville. Healers scurried to and fro, gathering supplies. Guards took up positions, curiously being stationed on rooftops rather than on walls. Scribes furiously duplicated a message, to be sent to all the Lords of Europe at utmost haste.

These scribes were sworn to secrecy, of course, but all the same stories about the content of the missive soon found itself being whispered about all across the Holy See, from the highest tower to the lowest chamber. Rumors swirled about, that the Holy Father had had a vision given by the Lord himself, that he had seen into the will of God Himself, that the message carried with it an account of a meeting with the Divine.

These stories, dismissed as false by many among the population, carried with them kernels of truth. Indeed, the letters now being sent out on the swiftest horses available held a within a description of a divine vision, a telling of what was and what was to come. This was the Revelation to Innocent the III, which history would long remember, translated into dozens of tongues and spread throughout all the world.

In the Greek translation, it's name was a single word: Apocalypse.