A Port Xerô Introduction.
It was a chaotic event simply referred to as the 'Great Cleansing'; an orchestrated purge of the Planes that did aim to obliterate any and all threats towards Dæmon-Kind. With a merciless precision, a self-proclaimed 'God of War' did seek to eradicate dissent and usher in an era of chaos and desolation.
Yet, amid Vepar Aquilifer's relentless onslaught, a question does linger: Is all truly as it appears?
(This is to be a multi-Fandom series - or a Doctor Who, Fantastic Beasts/Harry Potter, Stargate, Underworld, Pirates of the Caribbean, The Demon Cycle, and League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Marvel, and D.C. crossover; predominately based/beginning within the Fantastic Beasts / Harry Potter Universe, with the others tossed in for good measure. Anything recognisable is not mine and belongs to whoever owns it; be they J. K. Rowling, WB, Peter V. Brett, BBC, Disney, MGM (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer), or anyone else I may have forgotten at the moment - sorry!)
Þæs Tīda is on Wæste, and Norþafrice landes strecað beforan ūs, þǣr sēo sunne hit beorhtneð. Þǣr sind wæstme feldas, sandig brū, and sǣstrēamas, þāra lēoda beoðmid blācum ansyngum befangen. Ofer þāhēah sandig tūnas, þǣr þābedu crīgaðand þāsunne bærneð. Þā ceastre sind wundorfulle, hīe stānbyrgenum āstīgede, beorhtu of golde and smaragdum.
Þǣr weoroda cumað tōsǣte, wǣpnum befangen, bī his rīce geornfulle. Sume beoð lēodweardas, þā eardað be wīdsceaftum, feldum and æcerum mid herewǣdum wǣpnod. Þāþēodas þurhwuniað beorhtum hofum, sīdum and glædum, mid þǣre ealdan sprǣce on heora āgenum mūðum.
In that Time of Waste, and the lands of North Africa stretch before us, where the sun brightly shines. There are vast fields, sandy plains, and sea streams, whose people are adorned with black countenances. Over the high sandy hills, where the boughs quake, and the sun burns.
The cities are wondrous, built of stone towers, bright with gold and emeralds. There come tribes to dwell, girded with weapons, eager for his rule. Some are lords of the people, who inhabit the lands with crafts, fields, and acres armed with war-gear. The nations endure in bright halls, wide and cheerful, with the ancient tongue on their own lips.
Hrōf - D-Xerô/Lǣs þæs Scēadugengan and Gēat
Þrēat Āncenned Cyne: DB-000/TLM/T1-PX
Dēofolces Rōse, Gebærn Norþafrice Landes
Cirice 8,000 ǣr Crīstes nīþercyme
The rhythmic chanting of a Shaman reverberated through the ancient valleys of Dēofolces Rōse and caused a pair of young eyes to turn away from the primeval etchings that depicted a jackal and gazelle upon the weathered stone, the latter of which had been pierced through the chest by a spear. Though, and with a small yet determined frown, those same eyes' pale-skinned owner was quick to return to the rockface, to their own tale that was slowly being chiselled into the valley's stoney face.
This child, a boy with crimson-red hair and a youthful but sharp countenance, and of whom could not have been more than seven winters old, did possess a gaze that was as gilded like the most treasured of honey, filled with an insatiable curiosity for learning - for understanding the tales of old that had been passed down through the ages via the very stones that surrounded the nomadic camp in which he had come to call home. And as this boy did continue his careful work, his gaze occasionally flickering to the beasts that had first caught his eye, the Shaman's voice slowly began to weave through the air like an unseen thread; one that did begin to connect the present moment to the stories that were believed to be as old as Time itself.
The depiction of a winged creature, slowly beginning to take form under the boy's skilled hands, seemed to come alive with each stroke of his chisel. The frown marring his lips deepened as he lost himself to his work, the etching that was but a mystery even to its young creator unfolding before honey-gold eyes. The images around him, the stories and tales of ages past, they spoke of survival, of the dance between predator and prey, and of the very primal forces that had come to shape the world in which this boy had been adopted into; something of which this redheaded child did also feel a profound connection to. He yearned to understand the ancient rhythms that echoed through the valley, of the magicks that did connect all things; past, present, and future.
And as if answering his silent wish, the distant chanting, something that had been nothing more than a low, droning hum, did slowly begin to transform into that of a guiding melody, helping to lead the boy through the labyrinth of both time and memory as the Shaman's tenor changed. It caused pale hands to lower from their almost finished tale, the etching the boy had been working on left incomplete but not forgotten as he found himself instead been drawn back to the jackal and gazelle; fingers reaching to trace their carved designs with an almost hesitant, feathered touch.
The jackal, the boy knew, symbolised cunningness and survival, whilst the gazelle, pierced through the chest as it was, represented the very balance of life and death. Yet, and as his pale fingers traced each grove with an almost reverent touch, the etchings became more than just mere images that had been carved into the rockface. They became emissaries of the ancient tales, messengers from a time when the boundaries between the realms had been fluid and ever-changing.
Despite his tender age, this pale-skinned child possessed what many would call an 'old soul'; one that did thirst for the knowledge beyond that of the mundane and every day. The golden glow of his eyes mirrored the very flames of curiosity that burned away within the hidden recesses of his heart, his very soul, as he let his hand fall away from the carvings and returned to the creation of his own; each tap of his chisel echoing through the valley like that of a beating heart and connecting the boy to the mystical energies he knew to linger within its folds.
Yet distant cries, carried by the wind, suddenly reached his ears and caused hands to freeze. The boy looked away from his work, drawn to the commotion just beyond the canyon's rockface as the Shaman's chanting was now mingling with the new and familiar and creating a symphony of sounds that resonated across Dēofolces Rōse's barren lands.
Urgency gripped the boy, prompting him to drop his tools and scramble up the stone for a better vantage point. And the frown that had been playing about on his features was quickly replaced by a smile as his gilded eyes landed upon the people that had welcomed him into their home; the hunters who were returning from another successful kill.
Night was quick to fall over the lands of Dēofolces Rōse, casting its umbral embrace over the desert terrain. The tribespeople had gathered around a blazing fire in the heart of their camp, watching as the crackling flames licked at the drywood and caused sparks to dance through the night air. Shadows stretched and contorted around the gathered, merging with the flickering glow of the fire in order to create an otherworldly tango of light and darkness.
Suddenly, tribesmen adorned in bizarre animalistic masks emerged from the obscurity of the night, their painted figures dancing with a primal grace. Each mask was a testament to the fearsome beasts that had driven their tribe to Africa's vast desert. Yet these beastly façades did not tell the tale of the very beings that had once posed a dire threat to their kind, and nor did they speak of fear and death; but that of survival and resilience. Carved from the very bones of their adversaries, and adorned with feathers and fur, these masks transformed the dancers into embodiments of beasts both real and mythical; all but a visual testament to the challenges they had faced and the spirits they did seek to exemplify.
As these masked tribesman danced, circling the fire, their movements told of a story about survival, a celebration of the life they had managed to carve out in the face of certain death. The rhythmic pounding of their feet echoed throughout the valley; a defiant tempo that proclaimed their freedom despite the continued threats from the cursed entities that continued to haunt their nights. And in the midst of all this tribal revelry stood a boy whose golden eyes watched on with a childlike wonder.
The bizarre masks, each representing a beast yet unknown to this pale-skinned child, seemed to come alive with every twist and turn of their wearers; the exaggerated features portrayed upon their bone façades casting shadows that played tricks upon his young imagination. The fire's glow, reflected within the depths of his golden eyes, painted intricate patterns on the rockface surrounding the camp, revealing to his eyes the ancient, carved epochs from bygone eras. His gaze, filled with the innocence of youth and the curiosity of a budding storyteller, traced the contours of the carvings before they fluttered closed; disappearing behind pale lids as the desert's breeze carried with it the whispers of magick that lingered in the air; a primal force that was woven into the very makeup of Dēofolces Rōse.
As the flames of the fire continued to dance and crackle, burning away the wood that had provided them with the blessing of life, this redheaded child felt a connection to something far greater than himself. The tribal dance, a rhythmic invocation of the spirits that haunted their lands, spoke of a language that transcended the need for mere words. And the masks, each a vessel for the essence of the dæmonic creatures they did represent, became nothing but conduits for the collective energy of the tribe.
The night air carried with it the scent of burning wood and the faint aroma of desert flora, whilst the stars overhead, scattered as they were like glittering diamonds against the inky canvas of blue-black sky, bore witness to the timeless dance of victory these mortals held over the Dēofol that had once ruled their nights. And this redheaded, pale-skinned child, enthralled by the sparks rising into the air, sensed the magicks that permeated every inch of the desert landscape. It was but a lingering whisper upon the wind, an echo in the footsteps of the tribesmen, and lingered deep within the warmth of the fire; the flames, like the very storytellers of old, flickering with untold secrets that invited the boy to become a part of the living arras that adorned the heart of his adopted home.
A shadow swept its way across the full moon, an omen that did herald a swiftly approaching change - and went unseen and unknown by a young redheaded already long lost within the folds of his dreams. He slept within the layers of soft furs, a makeshift bed that was set below a number of hand-carved yet strange ornaments that depicted beasts and creatures of unknown origin; each of which succeeded in casting shadows that stretched and twisted across the lining of the boy's shelter, and the desert landscape beyond his abode was bathed in the moon's silvery embrace as it bore witness to the ancient dance between dreams and reality.
The rhythmic rattle of these carved figures, however; fashioned not from a breeze that was formed by the powers of the wind, but as if responding to an unseen energy within the air, created an eerie melody that echoed through the stillness of the night; each stroke and curve of these beastly depictions revealing the secrets of a future's past to any who dared listen. Though these wood, bone, and stone dæmons of the night, ones that were both feared and revered by their mortal kin, seemed to share a silent communion with the redheaded boy who had etched their forms into the very fabric of reality. And within the folds of his dreams, these dæmonic creatures did leap into the unknown, their shapes twisting and turning like the elusive spirits they did depict.
As the night progressed, these beastly carvings above the boy's furs begun to emanate a soft, otherworldly glow; casting a gentle illumination within the tent, one that transcended the very boundaries that marked the physical and the mystical. The desert breeze, carrying with it the whispers of ancient tales, begun to rustle the fabric abode, and as the moonlight filtered through the newly-made opening, the carvings seemed to come to life, their stories unfolding in the quietude of the sleeping camp.
Yet, and as the cadence of their physical manifestation begun to interrupt the silence of the night, golden eyes suddenly snapped open; alert to the unusual sounds of an unnatural storm brewing outside.
The fabric of the shelter flapped in a disconcerting rhythm, as if trying to keep pace with the unseen forces at play, though still this child chose to leave the comfort and safety of his furs. The once-still ornaments of bone, stone, and wood looked to respond to a cosmic symphony that only they could perceive; each one casting shadows that danced in intricate patterns around the boy. The very air itself begun to hum with a resonance of ancient power, and as he stepped out of his abode, golden eyes bore witness to an unnatural maelstrom that had begun to brew beneath the star-strewn canopy.
The beasty façades he had once carved had somehow seemed to have found freedom from their stationary prisons; moving with a life all their own as they eerily danced and flickered between the realms of light and shadow. The breeze continued to carry with it the whispers of unknown tales, yet it was not these that had garnered this redheaded child's attention - not as the moon cast its ethereal glow over the shifting sands of Dēofolces Rōse and the tribespeople panicked and fled from that of an otherworldly storm.
Amidst the growing chaos, however, this boy did push his way through the fleeing clan, compelled by a force he could not see to move toward the source of this strange tempest.
Tents were torn from their posts in the relentless gale-force winds, and fear gripped the tribe like a vice. Yet still this child, seemingly untouched by trepidation, continued to move closer to the unnatural phenomenon, squinting his way through the blurring sands. He barely noticed the Shaman, a man usually a beacon of wisdom and guidance, kneeling on the ground amidst the swirling winds, his painted visage reflecting both awe and trepidation as the carved creatures that had once resided within the boy's tent, now imbued with a pulsating and otherworldly glow - and clearly no longer confined - hovered around their creator's form like loyal hounds, all but mirroring the cosmic dance that was unfolding in the night sky.
The roaring in the young boy's ears intensified as he approached the raging storm, the winds howling as they carried traces of ancient powers, and gilded eyes reflected a mixture of wonder and determination as the tempest reached its zenith. As the roaring winds that whipped through the desert became nothing but a naught harmonious symphony of comic proportions to young ears, the single heart within the boy's chest begun to beat in sync with the pulsating energies that did now surround him. It were as if he were standing on the threshold of something extraordinary, a single moment in time that would ultimately shape the course of his destiny - and that of the people of his adopted tribe.
In the midst of this maelstrom, the desert surroundings became a chaotic dance of sand, wind, and shadows. Yet those same golden eyes remained fixated upon the storm's epicentre; drawn to it as if it were a mystical lure that defied the natural order. The boy could feel a connection to forces that went beyond that of his understanding, and the carved dæmons he'd once created continued to pulse with a hidden power that appeared to respond to his very presence.
It were as if he were a conduit, a bridge between the Mortal and Immortal Planes with the storm being nothing more than the blank canvas of which his destiny was to unfold upon, and as he neared the storm's epicentre, a sudden and blinding light exploded within his field of vision. The boy stood resolute, however; all but an island in the tempest, a lone figure continuing to push against the tide of fear - a beacon of unyielding fascination in the face of the unknown even as the very fabric of reality seemed to ripple and tear around him; the roaring fury of the storm transforming into that of a harmonious sonata of cosmic proportions.
The desert sands, whipped into a frenzy by the storm, became a swirling dance of elemental forces, and a series of vivid images suddenly flashed before this child's golden gaze; fragments of a cosmic tapestry unravelling within the maelstrom. Celestial bodies stood in motion, whilst beastly and humanoid figures intertwined in a dance that defied the constraints of time. The symbols that were etched into the very surface of Dēofolces Rōse resonated within his mind, and the carved beasts of his own creation; ethereal manifestations of dæmonic tales yet to unfold, continued to circle around the boy in a celestial choreography.
In that surreal moment, this redheaded boy's perception transcended that of the mortal confines within the Planes. He glimpsed upon the veiled truths that did dwell beneath the surface of reality, looked upon the interwoven threads of mortal and immortal existence; ones that would forever shape the destiny of his tribe, along with the ancient lands of which he had come to call home. And the storm, seemingly having served its purpose, begun to finally subside.
As the winds whispered their final secrets and the unearthly light gradually dimmed, however, leaving the boy standing in the aftermath of the cosmic tempest, a profound change within had occurred. It were as if this pale-skinned child had managed to touch upon the heart of the mystical forces that governed his adopted world, and in doing so, had been transformed into that of a conduit for the ancient powers that had begun to stir once more within the depths of the Devil's Rose.