On Ablian Straight

The day the ferries sank is marked by the dead, the desperate, and those awaiting damnation. I number among the awaiting.

I’d marched here that day with the rest, driven by desperation to protect our lands from the Nyderwen. We’d managed crossing the Handatha river’s west branch and crossed the Ablian Straight, that vast island important for the only safe crossings in leagues either direction with farmers witnessing our passage. They’d paused to cheer or stand pressing rough hats pressed to their chests. A salute to the brave sent to prevent Erradus’ fall.

But Nyderwenian sunk the ferries. First at the east branch as we watched wood break and the waters claim those aboard. Then the dread word arrived. They’d sunk west branch ferries as well. The Ablian Straight imprisoned us as Nyderwen descended over hapless Ablian.

Oh, the brave, or so the fools were extolled, tried forging the river. They’d tried to rejoin the battle. Every one of them lost their life to the rapids.

Thus, with the anniversary approaching yet again, I stand on Ablian’s battlements wondering if this year we’ll fall. A red sunrise stretches shadows over the planes the rotten ferries rise from Handatha’s depths ready to carry the army of the damned to us.

Ready to bring us down into their numbers.

Every year, I hold to my sword and renew my vow. I will not let Ablian, humanity’s last hope, fall. May the divine protect my soul should I fall.

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