The Arm in Daylight
Many scholars speak of Cord's Arm, generals dream of commanding its troops and clerics of banishing demons on the titan’s arm, but very few have stood upon its walls. I was among those few.
When I first arrived at the northern frontier, I expected a great fortress. Perhaps a chain of castles or a series of mighty cities dedicated to war. Instead, I discovered a nation built upon a wall.
The silvery black stone of Cord’s Arm cannot truly be described by pen and ink. One must stand upon it to understand. It appears unnatural, smooth in some places as polished glass and broken in others as though struck by divine hammers. Entire mountains seem to be formed from a single mass stretching from sea-rift to sea-rift.
There are no fortifications of the Thergen that sit upon the Arm. They are part of it. Towers rise directly from the black stone. Walls emerge from cliffs without visible foundations. Entire forts appear carved from the mountain itself rather than constructed by mortal hands.
For three days I remained at Fort Harad-Kor under the hospitality of Morg Vanardan Durdan Thickshield, who patiently tolerated my endless questions. “You scholars always ask the wrong things,” he told me while observing the northern horizon.
“What should I ask?” I replied.
He pointed beyond the Wall. “Ask why there are no demons.”
At first, I did not understand. Every tale of Cord’s Arm speaks of endless hordes, constant attacks, rivers of blood and perpetual war. Yet as I looked northward, I saw only silence. The land beyond the Wall stretched beneath dark clouds, distant mountains and almost total pitch blackness. The remains of ruined towers dotted the horizon; ancient roads wound across empty valleys scarred by war and abandonment.
“The Barrens,” the commander said. “Once it was a euphemism. Now they stand motionless as old worn statues. So much so that it makes our troops brood”.
There were no endless armies, no banners, not even the slightest movement. Only ash remained, spread across the land like the memory of a forgotten fire. We were breathing it, breathing corruption.
“Where are they?” I finally asked.
Durdan nodded. “Now you ask the right question.”
Ask why there are no demons.
That evening I sat with veterans inside the fortress hall while golden ale flowed and stories passed between generations of Defenders. From them I learned truths seldom recorded in southern libraries. The old demon realms near Cord’s Arm were largely destroyed during the Rise of the Fey. When the deceived Fey hosts marched north beneath the false guidance of Eryn, they unleashed powers capable of changing entire regions.
For days beyond counting, light covered the heavens. Theril’s darkness was breached and the cursed moon disappeared from the sky leaving an endless unforgiving sun in its wake. The veterans spoke quietly when discussing those events. Not because they feared demons, but they respected the memory of such power.
It is difficult now to imagine what Othmog once was. The silence beyond the fortifications deceived the eye. Before the Days of Endless Light, these wastes were among the most contested lands in all Therasya. Demon fortresses rose upon every ridge and canyon. Black roads carried armies between sprawling strongholds, breeding pits and slave cities. Countless banners of archdemons darkened the horizon, while war horns echoed day and night across the Barrens.
The siege of the Thergen forts was unending. One army would break against the Wall only for another to emerge from the darkness behind it. Cord’s Arm stretched too far for the Thergen to defend alone. The Wall ran from haze-shrouded sea to haze-shrouded sea, dozens of miles of towers, gates and battlements. Thus, every kingdom of the Alliance sent warriors north. Heraldian templars stood beside Thergen shield walls. Andorian mages cast their spells from black towers. Kinetikan airships patrolled the skies while Makinka scouts hunted infiltrators among the rocks. The Defenders were never a single army, but many people bound by a single purpose.
For generations they fought a war of attrition against an enemy that seemed without number, until the Fey light descended upon Othmog and transformed the northern frontier forever.
One old Daergoun named Harl Longbeard described it best. “The light killed demons,” he said. He paused. “Then it kept burning until fruit and seed were burned too, until only trees remained and rivers turned into streams in the south. If our granaries had not been full, we would have starved.”
Entire provinces of Othmog were consumed, fortresses vanished, pits collapsed, and armies were erased in a heartbeat. Even the strongest demons could not endure such light. Survivors fled deeper north or retreated below the earth. Thus, the frontier became strange. Not exactly safe. It could never be that, but it was…empty. A wound abandoned by the terrors that created it.
The expedition
The following week I received permission to accompany a reconnaissance force dispatched from Ael Maern. Their mission was simple: Travel north, observe, map, return. When I first read the orders, they seemed almost disappointingly brief. Yet the more time I spent among the Thergen, the more I understood their wisdom. Nothing was unnecessary, nothing was wasted.
The commander, Ruke Stormbolt, made it clear that my presence was tolerated rather than desired. “If you die,” he informed me, “I am not carrying you, even being so light for a gnome. You are getting buried in the Barrens”.
“A reasonable military policy,” I replied. That answer earned the first smile I saw from him. We crossed the Wall at dawn. It was as if the light ended on the Arm like a lantern reaching the farthest corner. Instead of fear, curiosity overwhelmed me. The lands beyond Cord’s Arm did not resemble the domains of demons described in children’s tales. We saw no burning rivers or endless battlefields. There were only ruins. The aftermath of ceaseless chaos and destruction. Ruins everywhere I could look. Ancient watchtowers blackened by impossible heat. Collapsed fortresses half-buried beneath red sand. Roads leading toward settlements that no longer existed. In many places the stone itself appeared melted. And ash, ash everywhere, of destroyed demons and burned mortals, covering everything as if the world had burned. Some remained in their final position before light claimed them.
Our guide, a Thergen mountaineer named Doran, explained that some regions still bore scars from the Days of Endless Light. “The fire came from above,” he said. “But the light came from everywhere.”
Even centuries later, portions of the land would remain barren. Nothing would grow, nest or even survive.
One afternoon we entered the remains of a vast demonic fortress overlooking a canyon. Its walls stood hundreds of feet high despite being shattered. The place was silent. No demons occupied it, only marks of scavengers remained within. “Korrs” my guide said. Only these mad creatures roam this land. The architecture was as chaotic as the demons that raised it. Angles that should not exist within any mortal structure, part sand-bricks and part bone, whole rising walls built of skulls.
I spent several hours examining inscriptions carved into black stone. That too came as no surprise, the script bore no signs of order. Abyssal chants, records, names, soul offerings were etched on the walls like the work of a mad painter. The realization troubled me. Too many people imagine demons as mindless beasts. But these ruins suggested something far worse. A cruel civilization of pain, misery and power. The sort capable of surviving for thousands of years…and rebuilding after each disaster. That night I recorded a note in my journal.
Three days beyond the Wall we encountered our first living inhabitants. Not demons. Korrs. They emerged from rocky ridges overlooking our camp. Taller than most of their Thergen kin and broad-shouldered like walking oaks. Half-clad in armor fashioned from an unknown alloy part stone and part steel. Their leader requested our reason for trespassing into their territory in a rough demanding voice. I looked around, the Barrens stretched with no visible barrier, I smiled. Our group leader made two steps, bowed and left a fine Thergen axe on the ground, a magnificent piece adorned with platinum, its edge pure Erevium, a priceless gift.
“There are hundreds of them hiding in the darkness. For all I know they could be crawling right under our feet.” Our leader whispered to me as he returned. “The enemy of our enemy…”
The Korr leader took some steps and picked the weapon up. “I have not earned this steel, but I will keep it as a promise to slay demons with it”. He made a gesture and five of his warriors stepped into our line of sight. They were bare from the waist up, holding large cleavers and their skin marked in protective markings, berserkers. He introduced himself as Kargan of the Broken Peaks. His hand remained upon his axe throughout our entire conversation. Not out of fear, but more like a habit. All his men were alert, looking not at us but around, sniffing like animals.
Yet the meeting proved unexpectedly peaceful. Southern stories often describe the Korrs as villains. Many certainly deserve the reputation. Yet they are not servants of Othmog. Indeed, their hatred for demons may rival that of the Thergen themselves. Over shared fires and questionable stew, I listened to their tales. Their clans constantly skirmished with creatures emerging from forgotten caverns. Entire generations were raised fighting monsters from beneath the mountains, in Theril’s darkness, until some overcame the corruption. Once they were Thergen, now they were another breed, hunters in the night.
One elderly Korr laughed when I asked whether his people feared demons.
“Fear?” He spat into the fire. “Fear is for people who think they can avoid a fight.”
I wrote that saying down immediately. It seemed like an excellent summary of Korr philosophy.
The expanse
The following morning, we parted ways with Kargan’s clan. Before our departure, the Korr leader gifted Ruke an errek, a small Korr stone carved with ancient symbols. “No magic,” Kargan said.
“No blessing?” our leader asked.
“No.”
“Then what does it do?”
The Korr shrugged. “It reminds you where your head is.”
To my surprise, Ruke accepted the gift with solemn respect and a thunderous laugh. The two men embraced, like lost brothers who had found each other after years of solitude. Only later did I learn that among the Korr such tokens are given only to warriors expected to survive. The exchange revealed much about these people. Their customs lacked the elegance of Andor, and they possessed none of the refinement of the Fay. Yet beneath their rough manners existed a harsh sincerity rarely found elsewhere in Therasya. One knew exactly where one stood with a Korr. The same could not always be said of men or kings.
As we continued northward, the landscape began to change. The scars of the ancient Fey burning became more apparent. Entire hills appeared melted. Black stone had frozen like flowing rivers. Massive formations stood twisted into impossible shapes as if the mountains themselves had briefly become liquid. No natural fire could have accomplished such destruction, nor could ordinary magic. Fey had turned the sun on this place and light obliterated it. Even light, when given in excess, becomes a weapon. Several times we discovered strange crystalline growths protruding from the earth. Their strong glow was drained by Theril. The dark moon had returned, snuffing away what little light remained, diminishing our eyesight to a few meters.
Doran warned us not to approach them. “Old magic.”
“Demonic?” I asked.
He nodded. “Some places still remember.”
I found that statement oddly unsettling. Some places still remember. The phrase remained with me long after. Throughout my travels I had often considered history a thing contained within books and memories. Yet here the land itself seemed capable of remembrance. Even the wind seemed to carry echoes of a war long dead.
Some places still remember.
Five days beyond Cord’s Arm we reached a region known among the Defenders as the Ash Expanse. No maps accurately portrayed its size. The terrain stretched beyond the horizon in every direction. Grey dust covered everything. No trees, no grass, no water. Myth said that only demons could survive here, even Helkorians did not dare enter it. Every step released small clouds that drifted upon the wind. Doran explained that an entire demonic province once stood here.
Millions may have lived within those lands through the years. Petitioners, corrupted souls, mortals decaying into demons. They had once built farms and cities. Then came the Days of Endless Light. Now nothing remained, not even ruins. The place felt wrong, dangerously empty. Even sound seemed reluctant to remain. We crossed the Expanse in silence. No one wished to linger and even the veterans appeared uncomfortable. When I asked why, one of the human soldiers answered quietly.
“There should be something here. Once people flocked here, flaying their skin, murdering one another, offering the demons their soul in exchange for descending to their form. It was a blood land, lawless but filled with worshippers of the worst kind.”
The statement required no further explanation. Not even evidence. The petitioners were the lowest breed, lower than the worm-like dretches wallowing in their own filth. There should have been ruins or at least bones, some kind of evidence that something existed here once. Absence, it was as if the Fey wanted history itself erased.
Life signs
Our only true encounter occurred shortly before reaching Morgal foothills. The creature emerged at dusk. At first, we mistook it for a moving ridge of stone broken loose from a cliff on top of us. Then the ridge stood. The thing towered above us. Its body resembled a fusion of flesh, skeleton and crystal. Long limbs ended in talons larger than swords. It possessed no actual head, just two thin limbs like antennae twice as long as its full body. Rows of thin openings marked the body like gills full of endless teeth, from which pale vapors escaped.
The soldiers immediately formed ranks, yet the creature did not attack. Instead, it circled through the valley with slow, deliberate movements around us, remaining at the edge of our vision. It was searching for the best way in.
Doran’s face became pale.
“A Mourner. Stand still”.
The name alone silenced the veterans. We remained immovable among shattered rocks, while the enormous being crossed the valley. It took all my wizard’s training to concentrate, but my fellow travelers could not remain silent forever. A spear struck a shield. In the stillness of that cursed place, it echoed like a thunderclap. The creature stopped and turned to us. For a second it did not move and then its gills unfolded, revealing long series of small teeth. What I had mistaken for part of its body stretched outward. Crystal-covered limbs rose into the darkness. The antenna-like appendages turned toward our line, sensing without eyes.
“Shields!” Ruke roared. The Defenders moved instantly. Heavy Thergen shields slammed together with practiced precision. A wall of steel formed before I could even raise my staff. Then the Mourner screamed, a sound unlike anything I had ever heard. I expected a roar or a howl, but this sounded like grief itself cursing in Abyssal. Ash moved around us forming circles, my bones vibrated beneath my skin causing my nose and ears to bleed. The world tilted violently and I collapsed vomiting blood. Warriors were shouting, a priest raised his staff and a light barrier flashed into existence. I glimpsed Doran as he released a dart from his arbalest, piercing the creature’s hide. The monster moved, a defender disappeared beneath it, shield and flesh shattered alike under a sweeping limb. Yet the wall held, adjusting always in front of the creature.
Sparks erupted in the darkness as the Mourner advanced. I remember Ruke standing in the center of his men, axe raised high, screaming at something three times his size. My eyesight became blurry; another scream and the world was just pain. As darkness claimed my sight I caught a final glimpse. Thergen scripture burned on their shields, they moved on like one body, axes rose and fell like harvesting grain, demon flesh turned to ash.
Only after the creature was vanquished did I learn its nature. I woke to the sound of priests chanting, my limbs felt numb, but I could finally hear and move. At first there was only darkness, then some shadows, just shapes. For a dreadful time, I believed I had been permanently blinded.
“Tough little gnome. Most die from the sound. I mean most not of Thergen blood.” Doran pulled me on my feet. When my vision finally cleared, I saw exhausted Defenders sitting among broken shields and bloodstained rocks. Two human soldiers lay wrapped in bandages, another received healing from the priests, and at the center of the valley remained a vast mound of black ash and shattered crystal where the Mourner had fallen.
According to both Korr and Thergen lore, Mourners appeared after the Fey burning. Whether born from corrupted demons, twisted magic, or something older remained unknown. Unlike most creatures of Othmog, they hunted neither flesh nor blood. They sought remnants, old souls, half turned into demons. They even feasted on dretches for sustenance. Some claimed they gathered the souls of things destroyed during the Days of Endless Light. Others believed they searched endlessly for a master long dead. No one truly knew. Fortunately, no one wished to investigate further. We continued our journey immediately. Some mysteries in these lands exist that are best left unsolved.
Life
Several days later the Morgal Mountains finally appeared. I had heard descriptions throughout my life, none proved adequate. The mountains rose like colossal dark teeth against the northern sky. Their peaks vanished into clouds and shadows and great scars cut through their slopes. It was as if colossal Therions had battled and crushed the mountain with their claws. Ancient tunnels and fortifications could be glimpsed from afar. A light red glow illuminated them, allowing only outlines to our eyesight. Blurry and obscured by the complete darkness of Theril. This place felt like we could breathe corruption; our lungs and spirits rebelled against staying here much longer. Entire kingdoms might have hidden within those mountains, perhaps some still did, a refuge for demons and their followers.
We established camp upon a ridge overlooking the range. That evening I sat beside Madron Stormhammer, our cleric, while Theril disappeared behind distant peaks. But there was no light, just a brief lifting of the total despair we felt during the night. For a long time neither of us spoke. Finally, I asked the question that had occupied my thoughts since leaving Cord’s Arm.
“Why do they not attack?”
He looked toward the north. “The demons?”
I nodded.
“There are fewer than people think,” he answered.
That surprised me. “After the Fey burning?”
“Partly.” He threw a stone into darkness.
“Most people imagine Othmog as one united empire.” “It is not?”
He laughed. “No.”
What followed became one of the most enlightening conversations of my journey. According to Madron, the demons spent as much effort fighting one another as they fought the southern kingdoms. Warlords battled rivals, archdemons plotted against archdemons, subterranean powers competed for surface territory. Entire campaigns were consumed by internal conflict. The great threat of Othmog lay not in unity but in potential unity. Even Graz’zt, the ruler was not all-powerful. Should a single entity ever truly dominate the northern wastes, the balance protecting Therasya might collapse. That possibility haunted the Defenders more than any current invasion.
“The Wall doesn’t exist because we’re stronger,” Madron said.
“It exists because we’re still alive.” Those words carried the weight of centuries.
The following day I climbed one of the lower peaks alone. From there I could see a bit further. I cast a spell empowering my eyesight, normally enough to see across. Here it just allowed a few hundred meters. Far south lay the distant line of Cord’s Arm. It was illuminated and standing out to us, like a beacon of light and life. To a demon, this must have appeared as a lighthouse of defiance. A thin light scar across the horizon. Beyond it stretched the lands of the Free People, the Alliance, our cities, temples and schools. Northward extended only deeper darkness and ancient ruin. Yet standing upon that mountain, I realized something unexpected. Cord’s Arm was not merely a barrier against demons. It was a monument. The remains of Thera’s protector, the source of precious Erevium and proof that countless generations had chosen resistance over surrender.
In my eyes every tiny fortress, every tower reduced to a mere splinter by distance, every figure moving upon the Wall represented another nameless soldier immortalized within the silvery stone. All had contributed to a single purpose. To preserve one more year, one more generation and one more chance for the people of Therasya to endure. As I watched the fading light cast gold and crimson across the southern peaks, I finally understood the lyrics sung by Geozzorn the Bard.
“Darkness by Theril's shadow-fall. Blackness by Cord's Arm and the Radiant Light of Heroic Souls.”
Geozzorn the Bard
For in all my travels, nowhere had I witnessed that final light shining more brightly than upon the Wall at the edge of the world, like a lone candle, flickering but unwavering. Looking north, I understood why the Defenders never speak of victory. Victory is a southern word. Upon Cord’s Arm, survival is enough.
— Eolon of Oemon
