INTRODUCTION

In the Shadow of the Godwyrm

The lands of Iselaird wither beneath a primordial curse.
The Sun lies in eternal slumber, veiled by the serpentine coils of the vile Godwyrm. Its writhing shrouds the All-Sphere in shadow. From its body bleed the Children of the Wyrm, wailing in the unending night. They plummet to the surface, plague and strife following in their wake.

Ingress, the Unseelie griever, bears a curse of her own.
The rotblade Alberich follows her every step, bound to her by witchcraft. Its obsidian edge thirsts for ichor even as it drains her own elven blood. This is her penance -- for summoning the wyrm.But she was deceived. Betrayed by Corinth and those she had sworn to serve.

Now the Unseelie stalks Iselaird, driven by vengeance and hunting for blood. Alberich will feast on the corpses of her betrayers and when the blade's thirst is quenched, Ingress will turn its sharp edge toward her ultimate prey.The Godwyrm itself.

ABOUT

Eirlithriad Saga

Eirlithriad Saga is a new dark fantasy world created by Giannis Milonogiannis (Old City Blues, Ronin Island, Prophet).Told through prose, illustration, comics, and ephemera, Eirlithriad Saga is the story of Ingress, a fey elf betrayed by those she once served and her hunt for revenge through the lands of Iselaird.

Excerpt from

Blade of the Unseelie

The stench was unbearable even on the hill where Ingress stood, a thousand paces from the village entrance. She closed her wide-set eyes and filled her nostrils with the scent of rotblood. The smell of death made her stomach turn and her mouth water.Not good, she thought.She slogged downhill toward the plague-ridden village, leaving dying trees behind. The harsh moonlight cast a long, cold shadow where it met her pale Unseelie features. Paler than ever, now.The journey through the dead forest had left her exhausted, down to her last vial of blackwater. If she didn’t find more, it wouldn’t be long before she herself succumbed to the rot that coursed her veins. She quickened her step.Close behind, the obsidian instrument of her torment followed silently. The dark blade was longer than she was tall and curved slightly, masterfully, along its length. The longsword followed in her step, sharp black glass cutting through the mist, trapping any moonlight that fell upon it. The name of the blade was Alberich.Ingress so abruptly stopped at the village entrance that Alberich nearly slammed into her broad, cloaked back. She looked down to a signpost offering directions to nearby settlements. The place names had been scratched out of the redwood. Bruise-colored mold had grown in the gashes. The vandalism must have taken place some time ago.She lifted her eyes to the decaying village that lay ahead. A crude gallows stood in the muddy town square. Around it, a few rows of ramshackle wooden buildings fanned out in a circle. Most of these were in complete ruin, doors and windows half-hanging on their hinges as thieves and bandits had once hung in the village square.Through a filthy window she could make out faint candlelight dancing on a wall. She made her way to the house, decrepit and rotting like the others, but clearly inhabited. Muffled voices spoke softly within. As she reached the door, the conversation ceased. Before she could lift a hand to knock on the door it opened, if only a crack.A grey face looked up at her, wide eyed and at a loss for words. “Stranger,” a man’s voice growled. “Go away.”Ingress towered over the sickly man so intensely that, when she placed her hand on the door, he knew better than to try wrestling it shut.“Suit yourself, long-neck,” he hissed and stepped back from the door. “Got nothing left for you to take, anyway. Bandits took most of it. Rotblood’s taking the rest. Now get in here – you’re letting the cold in.”She ducked and walked into the house. Any change in temperature was hardly noticeable. Inside, the man poured wine into a steaming cup while a woman tried to keep warm sitting by a wood-burning stove. The woman tensed up at the sight of Alberich hanging in the air as it followed Ingress into the house’s single, it seemed, room.“Witch,” she whispered, more in awe than fear.“That’s no witch,” the man reassured her as he looked from Ingress to her blade, and back again.“Unseelie folk lost their magic years ago, even before the Second Realm fell. Our unwelcome guest bears a curse, more likely.”They were both filthy, reeking of blood, dirt lodged under their nails. But the woman’s clothes were finer than his, the higher quality of the threads plainly visible, even in the candlelight. In fact, she did not fit in this house whatsoever. Finally, Ingress felt it was time to speak.“You don’t live here,” she addressed the woman. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”The man became visibly irritated at the question. “You don’t live here either, long-neck! What are you doing here?”“Enough, Edrin,” the woman ordered. The man named Edrin seemed to grow smaller. This woman commands a power over him. The woman turned to look at Ingress.“This man is our village doctor, stranger. I found my husband sprawled on the floor not long ago. He wasn’t breathing. So, I ran here to call for Edrin’s help,” the woman whose name was still a mystery said."Lady Gibbet and I rushed back to her place,” Edrin continued. He took a long swig of mulled wine and swallowed loudly.“Lord Gibbet was nowhere to be found.”

Behind her, Ingress felt Alberich squirm.

Excerpt from

Eirlithriad Saga

Arbiter Noctua of the Knights of the Hepatic Order despised traveling the lands of Iselaird on foot. Crawling across the face of the All-Sphere, like so many diseased peasants. Like a mere mortal. It was beneath him. To order him to make the journey via such low-born means was a clear affront by Arbiter Razem.One day, Razem. Soon. Just you wait.Arbiter Noctua moved as gracefully as he could manage over the unevenly paved streets of Saintgrave. He proudly wore the full garb of the Hepatic Knight for all the city's thieves and beggars to see, to cower in fear and awe. For all the children to marvel at. To dream, without hope, of one day following in his exalted footsteps. Commoners scurried into the shadows as he passed, wary of drawing his attention.His suit, all blackmetal and leather, was pristine. A long cape, woven from the rare skin of a drake’s wing flowed elegantly behind him, fastened to the platinum shoulder scales that framed his custom-crafted knight’s helm. The helm was the centerpiece of the ensemble, the final masterpiece of the renowned Master Clarins. Polished blackmetal caressed his cheek like the gentle touch of a lover he had yet to know. And, most important of all, the headpiece curved with masterful precision to showcase his exquisite, highborn human ears.At his left hip hung the weapon customarily bestowed upon the Hepatic Knights by divine order. The baptized curseblade. Noctua’s blade was the Esdraelon, a name bequeathed to it by the Exarch Alcest himself. Behind Noctua trailed his bonded mystic, Aclima, her eyes concealed beneath the veil of black cotton gauze, as dictated by both tradition and cruel necessity.The pair made their way through the fallen city of Saintgrave with ease. No one dared lay eyes upon a Hepatic Knight beyond a glance, let alone stand in his way. Crowds parted as if obeying the crack of a silent whip. For most, this would be the closest they would ever come to experiencing an ascended life. For most, merely being in the presence of a Knight would be the highlight of their pathetic lives. Under the helm, Noctua grinned smugly as he basked in the combined envy and adoration he sensed from the filthy commoners. He almost hoped for one to try accosting him, if only to give the crowd a story to remember and tell. To instill fear for generations more.He took a deep, calming breath and brought his attention back to the task at hand. The ridiculous errand Arbiter Razem had sent him on.Noctua could hear a church bell tolling solemnly in the distance and followed the sound. He was surprised to hear the knell, having imagined the grasp of the Church would have weakened this far into the Broken Lands. He had expected the local church would be all but demolished now.Saintgrave had seen better days. The blood rot had finally reached the city, and Noctua could tell it wouldn’t take long for the plague to spread past the Broken Lands, deeper into the mainland. Travel was officially banned, of course, but the word of law held little power these days. Eventually, drifters and pillagers would bring the disease all the way to the ruins of old Runica. Noctua hoped it would just take long enough for the Knights of the Order to have finished their divine duty.It didn’t take long to reach the church. Saintgrave was a big city by wasteland standards, but couldn’t hold a candle to the sheer scale and grandeur of Noctua’s home, Basilica. The cathedral itself was in a lamentable state, as was to be expected, but clearly still serviced those few who continued to seek absolution. He walked up the few steps leading to where there was once a door, surely pillaged for firewood by now, bowed slightly and entered the sanctuary. Frankincense hung in the air.A few bodies littered the aisles, some clinging to life and muttering prayers, others decaying in silence. Two wide men in masks were in the process of picking up one of the dead believers. They let the body fall at the sight of a Knight in their church. Their fear pleased Noctua, who proceeded further in, to the transept where a priest now stood, awaiting him. The man was so short and thin that his tattered robes sagged at his bare feet. His hair grew in patches that were nearly white, even though the man seemed far too young to even be graying. As Noctua drew closer, the priest bowed, not nearly deep enough, and drew the symbol of the church over his chest with the bruised nail of his right thumb. Noctua noticed the man glance nervously at Aclima and averting his gaze.“Our Minor Cathedral is blessed by your presence, Master Arbiter. The One sees you,” the priest offered the greeting with little emotion behind the words. As expected. Faith can only carry you so far, in such dire conditions. Perhaps a miracle is in order.“The One sees all,” Noctua replied in the customary turn of phrase. “Now, I believe you already know the reason for this visit.” He rested an arm on the hilt of his blade.“Indeed, Master. Lord Arbiter Razem’s communique was clear, even given our telepath’s… reduced state,” the priest said. “We are to surrender our Holy Book.”“You do not seem much distressed by such an unusual request, dear priest,” Noctua interrogated.“I know my place better than to question a Holy Order, Master Arbiter. Besides, I’ve given so much to the faith. I’m used to it taking.”Noctua’s blood rushed at the wavering conviction — no, outright heresy — of the man in front of him.“Watch those words, priest. The One can claim more than you could imagine; do not test it so brazenly.”“Forgive me, Master. It’s not been an easy life here, since…” the priest started, unsure if it would be wise to continue that particular thought, decided against it. “The One blesses our skies, Master. We are its servants.”The priest picked up a heavy book from the altar. It was wrapped in crimson velvet, held in place by gold thread. The man gently patted the wrapping and a cloud of dust scattered from the cloth. It must have been years since the book had been used. He kissed the seal that sat under the knot and presented it to Noctua.Aclima swiftly stepped in to take the book, bowed as she returned to her place behind her master. Noctua saw the priest squirm slightly when the witch approached him. Good, he thought. You’ve lost your faith, but you still have fear.“You understand what happens next, priest,” Noctua said quietly, behind the mask of his helm.“Of course, Master. A cathedral without the Book is merely a house of stone and plaster. It is unconsecrated,” the priest whispered as he removed his robes, defeated. “I take my leave now — of you, and of the Church. There are bodies that need burning. Fires that need tending. The One sees you,” the man said for the last time in his life, and joined the others in carrying the dead out to the pyre.Red moonlight shone through a broken stained glass window, high in the cathedral’s clerestory. Through the shards Noctua saw it. The Godwyrm slithered behind gathering dark clouds. A cold shiver ran down his spine.“The One sees all,” Noctua said to himself.“Blessed be the Wyrm,” Aclima whispered behind the black veil.

Eirlithriad Saga is Copyright 2025 Giannis Milonogiannis.