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Dr Archeville

[Time Warp] The Land of the Mists (Fulcrum)

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Hail, sisters. Let us remember our Great Journey! May we never forget from whence we came. At the dying of the First Age, our people dwelt in a land of olives, honey and melons. We honored the old ways, worked the forge and sought to know our world. Traders spoke of conquerors, but our strength kept tyrants at bay. The kingdoms of men lived out their times. We prospered.

The Sun fell into dreaming. The land became arid and harsh. The envious eyes of foreign gods gazed over our verdant valleys. Armies in bronze washed upon our shores. Horsemen of the eastern mountains descended as a plague of locusts. The tribes of the south proclaimed us witches. Our enemies multiplied and schemed against us.

The War of Long Defeat diminished our reserve by the season. For the first time, invaders occupied the birthplaces of our ancestors. A Grand Council deemed we must flee or perish. The last of the Guardians led us southward along the sandy coasts. Many were buried and honored in our passing. Invaders who could not conquer by sword used the word, and our men betrayed our ways. We cast them out.

On the shore of a wine-dark sea, our Oracle foresaw a great island. We set forth into the endless seas on a great fleet. Many were the sufferings heaped upon us by jealous gods. Great storms, doldrums and monsters beset us. Until one day a Serpent, as big as a mountain, rose from the waves and struck down our ships. As we prepared for our ends, a red star appeared.

Our Savior crushed the beast with her mighty hands. She came to us a stranger from a distant land, and aided us in our hour of greatest need. Lost was she too, but without thought of reward did she lend her strength to our fleet. Yet even flying as the eagle seemed powerless as one-by-one our ships sank into the dark.

The star manifested once more, but our Queen knew that to leave us would mean our certain deaths. Removing her jewelry, a blood-red vapor emanated forth and changed our vision. A great ring of fire churned before our eyes, and within lay a lush island. We fled to the island’s shores, and as the portal closed, so did her opportunity to see her home once more. She wept.

For two-and-a half thousand years has this story been retold. From mothers to daughters our memories pass. Remember our journey and our savior. Remember too how she returned to her family. That a sparkling white star opened and stepped forth a man with eyes of gold and hair of rainbows. Thus did our savior return to her family!

The days of superstition are passing. The technology of men will find us one day soon. Our reputations as phantoms and sirens, banshees and witches served us well as we sought to propagate our lines, but soon such legends will not protect us. Contact with the outside world is inevitable.

Perhaps the legacy of our savior lives on? Would her descendants aid us as she once did?


“Where ever did you find this, Raphael?” asked a pudgy man in a tweet jacket. He held a large, earth-tone pot.

The addressed man leaned against a bookcase and smirked. “Jakarta, if you can believe it. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Neither have I, my boy,” said the elder man before pausing, “The style suggests Pre-Classical Greek elements, but the rest is an eclectic synthesis of styles, or perhaps even a unique subculture.”

“It’s fake then?” asked the young man, a scowl forming on his lip.

“Not at all. The manufacturing and artistry all match the rough time period. The depiction baffles me though.”

“That’s what first drew me to the piece. Mythology and battles are common in pottery from Greece and Asia Minor, but...I don’t know. To me it looks like a goddess leading a fleet of women warriors, Amazons maybe, into battle against a sea serpent.”

“The symbol on the giant’s shield doesn’t look familiar either: a solid triangle with a bar across the top. Interesting.”

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