II. Sarfan-on-the-Plain
He came riding a white horse, the historians say, clad in shining iron armor and holding a shield. He carried an axe with him and rode slowly and majestically, with the determined air of a man who knows he will conquer. He gleamed like a star, so much so that everyone in the small village of Sarfan-on-the-Plain could see him from hundreds of blocks away, approaching from the Plains. It was as if a second sun was rising in the west.
Sev the Cleric had left the old cobblestone church, Azel the Butcher's furnace lay abandoned, Hava Yal the Fletcher's trees were silent. The farmers looked up from harvesting their crops and paused, frowning. Even Cheni, son of Maro the Leatherworker, had left his father's cauldrons. Everyone in the village had stopped what they were doing for the day, and a small crowd had gathered by the banks of the river, their eyes towards the Plains, watching the approaching stranger.
Low murmurs spread throughout the crowd regarding this ironclad man from the west, whose skin looked like that of a golem but whose form was far too small to be anything other than a villager. An emissary from one of the Plains villages, perhaps, bearing a message from the councils in Bercina or the merchants of Market Hane. Or perhaps a messenger from the Pillagers—everyone shuddered at their mere mention—reinstating the old tribute. Maybe, Azel the Butcher suggested, he was one of the Wandering Traders, those mysterious landless folk who came to the village every so often, only to leave like the clouds.
Spayer the Armorer, perhaps looking through his spyglass, declared that the stranger's iron was of village make, and the crowd relaxed slightly. Hava Yal remarked that he had once seen a zombie wearing a helmet not unlike the stranger's during the night, and the crowd moved back. The murmurs intensified. Someone sent Cheni son of Maro to fetch the golem.
The anxiety must have been palpable. Even Sev the Cleric, the eldest of the village, said nothing as he looked towards the west. By now every single villager was gathered by the meandering River Mer. Their houses were empty and their sheep were unattended. And all were afraid.
He comes slowly, methodically. The armor weighs heavy and clanks each time he takes a step. The tall grass rustles in the wind and the sun beats down mercilessly on his flat face.
He has no food left; the last scraps of yesterday's mutton have sunken into his stomach and the hunger is palpable. The axe, blunted but still gleaming like the day he crafted it for the first time, swings back and forth. Beyond this his inventory has nothing but a pickaxe, a sword, a few planks of wood, a smattering of seeds, and a bed. He is in danger and he knows it.
He's tried to keep track of the days since he's come here. The axe was four days ago, so six days total. Or maybe it was seven?
The village. That's all that matters to him now, that's all he sees: slanting oak roofs and sturdy cobblestone walls covered with moss and ivy. It's still a few hundred blocks off. Vaguely his mind sees an image of stacks of haybales and he quickens his pace. He can see some villagers in the distance, more than he thought there would be, but he doesn't care. He wants to talk to someone so badly.
Maybe they speak English, he thinks. And immediately chastizes himself for his stupidity. It still seems so far away.
He remembers everything. He remembers his old life. He remembers the stories of old empires and glorious kings. He remembers that he can live for three months without food. He remembers that he is not a villager but a man. He remembers that he is in a game. And he remembers how to win this game.
He is Alexius Magnificat and he will rule the world. And there is no white horse—not yet.
The crowd watched solemnly as the golems lumbered by. What few eyewitness accounts survive from that age say that all were assembled by the banks of the Mer—so around twenty villagers—and that they felt great fear. So this was Alexius Magnificat's first introduction to the world of the villager: apprehension and anxiety.
At around noon he reached the western bank of the Mer and stopped in front of the crowd, retaining even then his characteristically regal and aloof gaze. He towered over them on horseback so that the light reflected brilliantly on his armor and forced the villagers to look away. The people of Sarfan must have been petrified, for they had never seen a king, or at least a future one. This quiet meander of a river divided the Old World from the New on that day.
The Old World asked who he was. Most likely it was Sev the Cleric, prudent and wise from age, who dared to ask the question first: "Ca se?" Who are you?
Even without speaking a word of Old Plains, he understood the interrogative nature of the question. Sitting on his saddle, elevated and composed, he pointed towards himself and said, "Alexius."
And, pointing his axe towards the great white square in the sky, he said, "Sun."
They hesitated, still unsure of this stranger. Perhaps the Empire would never have been born if they had rejected Alexius there. But it was Spayer the Armorer who stepped forth from the crowd, pointed to the sky, and replied, "Suhl."
And with a deft gesture of the hand, he motioned towards Alexius. The meaning was universal. The would-be Emperor forded the shallow waters of the River Mer and entered Sarfan-on-the-Plain.
Thus did the New World reach the Old. Thus did the world begin to turn upside down.