Imperial Rhythms

There is a popular use of ancient civilisations, glorious empires of the past, in a ton of fantasy and fiction. The fallen cultures provides a sense of temporal scale, history extending far into the past. Invoking a reflection of our Earthly history; the romance of Rome, the ideal of Greece, the riches of the Babylonians, the mystery of Atlantis; the constructed world is easily infused with heritage and weight. Consider the Numenoreans of Middle-Earth, their grand ruins embellishing the rugged landscape. Further back, the elvish strongholds of the First Age. Even the Yellowstone Demarchy of Revelation Space has a similar quality, a former power is reduced to almost nothing, while its memory endures.

Cycles of ascension and destruction, tides of history. Why do ruins captivate our imagination? They recall the golden ages of ancient eras, but at the same time, they are clear reminders that the period in question is long past its terminus. We become archaeological pathologists, picking through the corpse of a city, looking for clues to how it collapsed. For we fear, realising that the time we live in now could be torn to instability by parallel pressures.

And what a time we are in! When has the world ever been so connected? When have ideas ever been as accessible as they are now? When have conveniences and choices imposed themselves so readily on so much of our population? Surely we are headed for some ideal, the future assured... But we are cautious, ever the record of the destroyed Empire haunts our progressive steps. Its narrative has been told and retold. In Asimov's Foundation Series, the Galactic Empire, apparently in its heyday, meets fatal contradictions and declines. In Star Wars, a single man seizes power from a senate, declaring himself Emperor...

So societal forensics tries to identify destabilising factors, to halt their malevolent progression among the societies still among the living.

With Eldawn, I certainly intend to employ this archetype in future, but at present, I feel compelled to take things a step further. Simply dotting ruins on a map implies a heritage, but never elaborates. When did those civilisations rise? When did they approach that asymptote of utopia before dispersing into the mist of the past? What were they like? Therefore, my account of Eldawn begins from the first civilisations, right after Creation. There are no ruins to recall dramatised re-imaginings of our real world history; these societies are the people who built them. The Radiant and the Filial are the very factions that dwelt in the first cities and halls, buildings that would later be abandoned for younger cultures to dissect and romanticise.

Setting the story in such a context is quite ambitious, but I feel it will be interesting as a result. How do these societies understand the world, without the wisdom derived from previous cadavers to guide them? Unable to draw on the seasons of yesteryear, would they not view history differently? To the first civilisations, progress would seem like a straightforward progression, culminating in some immaculate structure to last for all eternity. What a realisation it would be then, to watch for the first time, as the tide draws back down, realising that it cannot stay high forever.

Regardless, people remain inhabited by the same concerns. We learn, teach, find, lose, hold, fear and love, and will do so until the end of time. In that sense, the first cultures are not so alien, the same core human spirit is common to us all; something that lasts beyond the capricious fluctuations of the past and the future.