By Osric Penfold, Deputy Archivist and Part-Time Lantern Polisher
Every kingdom has its pivotal nights—those strange, silent hours when the very air changes texture and even the clocks, if they tick at all, seem to do so with caution. For the Kingdom of Eyehasseen, one such night occurred in the year 947, during what has since become known—simply and ominously—as The Great Blackout.
To this day, no one agrees entirely on what caused it. Some blame the faulty wiring at the Monastery of St. Crispinian, where Brother Ethelred had been experimenting with “holy conductivity” and a wheelbarrow full of copper plates. Others point to the rogue weather balloon launched by the Ministry of Sky Observation, which may have tangled uncomfortably with the Aetheric Gridlines above Inverness. And still others whisper of darker forces, though these whisperers are usually the same ones who claim that turnips scream when cooked.
Whatever the cause, what is certain is this: on the 12th night of Emberfall, just after the bells of Vespers rang out, every torch, lamp, lantern, sconce, and flickering bulb from the Capital to the coast went dark in perfect unison.
The effect was immediate and chilling. Inns fell silent. Candle shops emptied. Cats shrieked and disappeared. Entire families huddled beneath quilts, unsure whether to pray or look for matches. At the Great Observatory, astronomers rejoiced at the sudden clarity of the stars—until they realized their telescopes had been inverted and they were admiring chimney pots.
Inverness itself was plunged into a kind of dreamlike disarray. The Royal Theater cancelled its performance of A Midsummer Knight’s Beheading, and several actors had to be rescued after mistaking the orchestra pit for the dressing room. Across town, the Ministry of Official Distances admitted they had “lost the street measurements entirely” and asked residents to simply “walk confidently and assume the best.”
Surprisingly, crime did not increase that night. Indeed, many would-be miscreants, uncertain of their own whereabouts, chose instead to sit quietly in hedgerows and reconsider their life choices.
The Cathedral of the Holy Wounds, lacking its usual candelabras, held its night vigil by the light of bioluminescent snails, which the monks had thoughtfully gathered over the years “in case of something like this.” Their slow procession around the nave, each monk holding a softly glowing mollusc in prayerful stillness, is now commemorated each year on Lightfast Eve, with the traditional hymn “O Luminescent Wonder” and a symbolic extinguishing of the abbey sconces.
In rural villages, however, the blackout took a more festive turn. In Snidget Hollow, locals gathered in the darkness to tell ghost stories, most of which ended with someone falling into a pond. In Thimble-on-the-Pond, a mistaken church bell led villagers to believe the world was ending, and three engagements were hastily proposed before the lights returned.
Perhaps most remarkable was the behavior of the animals. Across the realm, livestock huddled in unnatural silence. In some towns, dogs reportedly lay down in the street and refused to move. At least one cow gave birth prematurely, and the calf—named Nightshade—is still living comfortably in the Abbey barn, treated as a minor saint by superstitious novices.
The blackout lasted precisely seven hours and twenty-two minutes. When the light returned—again, all at once—there was no warning, no fanfare, only the strange and sudden feeling that the world had just blinked.
Afterwards, a royal commission was convened to investigate the cause. It produced 137 pages of elegant speculation, one burnt sock, and a conclusion best summarized as “shrug.” No repeat incident ever occurred, despite the installation of additional levers and the excommunication of several experimental monks.
And yet, the Great Blackout of 947 left an indelible mark on the Eyehasseen psyche. For a moment, the kingdom was stripped of certainty, of brightness, of orientation. And in that stillness, something ancient stirred: the truth that light is not guaranteed, and that community—true community—is found not in sharing what we can see, but in holding each other when we cannot.
To this day, every Emberfall 12th, the Kingdom observes Shadow’s Night—an evening of quiet, fireless reflection. Torches are doused. Windows are shuttered. Families gather by the hearth and sit in silence for seven minutes and twenty-two seconds. Some pray. Some tell stories. Some simply wait.
And all remember that there was, once, a night when the Kingdom forgot how to see—and learned how to listen instead.