Varrach, The Void
Curiously, Varrach watched as the Alfar came to be, their mortal lives little but a blink of an eye. They struggled against the bitter cold, wrapping their bodies in the thick skins of the beasts they hunted and huddling in caves to escape the harsh wind. He saw the death of a proud warrior, the Alfar's wing thrashing helplessly as the would be prey gored him, and the solemnity as the fallen one's comrades placed him in the earth. The ones calling themselves Ahkrons came, servants of another of Varrach's brothers, teaching the Alfar how to grow and collect the hardy plants. He heard the songs they sang about their great father Arglwydd and the wise Ahkram, voices joined by the simple instruments they made. Above all else, he watched the progress of the one name Kurgim, seeing him divide the land amongst his followers and lead the tribes into battle with spear and club. As the Alfar Imperium spread, Varrach began to hear something else.
Survivors wailed as they were dragged away to toil for the new order. A pair of soldiers laughed, circling aloft as they chased down another Alfar who running clumsily, his broken wing trailing. Somewhere a girl sobbed for mercy as a vicelike grip held her down. Drumbeats sounded as the Imperium went to war, filling the sky with red wings and grim visages. The overseer beat his whip against the back of a screaming slave, warning the others that the same awaited them if the Son of Dream's harvest was not ready when the army arrived. A dying warrior gurgled blood, lungs pentrated by his own broken ribs. All of them and more cried out and Varrach recoiled as their demand struck him. They cried out to their families, to the spirits, to their tormentors, to anyone who would listen. They cried out for Vengeance.
Slowly Varrack turned away to face Arglwydd. "Do you hear them?" He demanded, divine features pained. "Do you hear them scream!"
