A Dark Beginning: The Forgotten Petals

Rosara is the southwestern most region of Grenmark. Its people are marked by grandiose manner and uncommon affluence. Though now regarded as native to the realm, they remain foreigners in both feature and origin.

For generations it was believed, whether by design or ignorance, that their forebears fled a darkness which threatened their religious rites centuries ago. Yet a letter written by one of Rosara’s once-prominent lords tells of a beginning far darker, and far more perfidious.

The Forgotten Petals

~ A letter authored by Lord Ordoño Corvera of Rosara, addressed to Lady Fruela Corvera of Luminara. Discovered within a private lockbox among the Corveras’ estate in Rosara.

Two years have passed. Two years since I last heard the cries of the innocent. Two years since I watched the bodies of my own people fill the streets of Montrosa.

And now, my sweet cousin, I can no longer bear the weight of my silence. My guilt encases every thought, as the mausoleum does the casket. And as stone does not yield what it entombs, I fear my heart will never be free of its shame.

I write to you in the hope that even the faintest telling of this truth might grant me some small measure of solace.

I remember the fear that overtook our city. It seemed to seep into every corner, until no man could stand apart from it. With each passing day, my chest tightened, and my breath grew short.

Word arrived that the Red Breath had marched upon the city of Marcella to purge those that followed the teachings of Ibn-La. They slaughtered its people with little resistance. Men, women, and children alike lay strewn across the southern lands, like carrion abandoned in the wake of a hunt. 

When it became clear their army marched next for Montrosa, our horror soon turned to hysteria.

Our council of ten convened in desperation, seeking some course by which our great city might be spared. Few spoke for its defense, and our king, in the end, agreed to stand and fight.

He addressed the council, reminding us that men who would not defend their land and kin were unworthy to possess either. And so, it seemed, this would be our path.

But there were others among the council who spoke more quietly. They offered another course, one steeped in cruelty, though veiled in the language of divine necessity.

As rumors of the Red Breath’s atrocities took hold upon the tongues of our people, their will faded like rising smoke. In no more than two days, a majority of the council was swayed to the more nefarious course.

In secret, we gathered our kin, our loyalists, and what supplies we could carry.

 And on the eve of the army’s arrival, we acted.

My sweet cousin, all who still followed the pagan gods were butchered, as though not an hour before, they had not been our neighbors. As though we had not bartered with them, shared kind words, nor even loved them.

We went from house to house, dragging families into the streets and cutting them down where they stood. Those who had converted to Ibn-La's teachings were spared and guided from the city to the coast, where ships awaited them, refuge granted for their faith in the Son of the one true God.

I did nothing. I only watched. I watched as men begged for mercy, for their wives and children to be spared. I watched, with mounting horror, as women clung to their dead, sobbing until they too were struck down.

For this, I was a coward.

And worse still, I became a traitor, for I stood wordless as they did the same to the king… and his kin.

The cries faded, and the blood slowed, until our great city knew only the whisper of the turning winds.

And as we looked upon the horrors we had committed, we told ourselves it was the only way.

“We offer these pagans in sacrifice before Ibn-La, that we might secure our exodus and be granted new beginnings. For we cannot hope to thrive once more without his blessing.”

This is what we told our people.

But the truth, my cousin, was far simpler, and far more shameful. The council understood what none dared speak aloud: that not all could leave upon the ships, that this knowledge would cause our people to riot and flood our vessels. We too could not risk the fury of those left behind, allowing their voices to reach the ears of the coming forces and betray our flight. Most of all we knew that the king would never have allowed such a craven and vile act.

We did what the Red Breath had come to do.

They came with cruelty and death to destroy the influence of our Lord. We betrayed him in the same manner, crying out against the Red Breath for their savagery, even as we carried it out ourselves, and laying the blame at the feet of a faith that had never called for such acts.

We now mean to rule without a king, only the council of ten. We have abandoned a great kingdom, one that knew mercy and honour, for a realm born of brutality and deceit.

I find myself alone in this belief, for none will speak of it, whether from shame or ignorance, I cannot say.

And this is to be the legacy I shall leave behind for my kin.

I pray you may still look upon me with kindness, cousin, for I was a man overcome by fear and weakness. I give thanks to our Lord each evening, for He has given us much here in Rosara. But with that same breath, I beg His forgiveness, yet I fear it shall never be granted.

Why should He? For I am no better than those who refuse His word, nor than those who apostatize, having turned from Him that very day.

I do not expect you to reply, my sweet cousin. For this revelation you will most undoubtedly find odious. It may be for the best, for I do not believe that, with this shame, I shall be long for this world.

With my deepest affection, to a woman of endless virtue, your once beloved cousin.

—Lord Ordoño Corvera