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The Spellcaster's Heiress, Chapter 3

By Christopher Leeson

From Dyan's Journal


Crawdour had told me this:

There once was a tribe that legend calls the Mighty.  The gods had breathed life into the substance of their creations and for long centuries the Mighty bestrode the world like giants.  And they were giants, in their spirits at least, and sometimes in actual stature -- a race of sorcerers.  They were much like the gods who had called them into being, but these beings had been created to enjoy the material earth.  Their mission was to fill it with a progeny that was all but divine.  

The bodies of the Mighty could channel the gods' own power, the cumhacht draiochta, and their minds could fashion this magic flow as they pleased.  They were supreme over Creation and, consequently, laid claim to whatsoever they pleased.  The gods, being satisfied, made lesser beings, in the image of the Mighty, to serve their senior children. 

For long ages, the Mighty held sway over the young race of Men, but at last fell from grace.  There offense was this:  They had mixed their Spirit and their Blood with the baser material of their servant kind.  Such unions, despised of the gods, gave rise to half-mortal sons and daughters, but though these were exulted among their own kind, they were less than their Mighty fathers. 

The gods were incensed that the order decreed by them had been flouted.  They swept the Mighty from the face of the earth and bound them in a realm of woeful tribulation.  They were condemned to suffer until ten thousand years should pass.  No one alive knows the day, or even the century, that the gods have set for the release of their errant children.  But all agree that the Mighty were bound a very long time ago….