Famine struck their innards like a toll on a hollow bell, rusted and yet still swaying with a frenzy for what they could not obtain, the knell sounding off an inevitable fate which yawned on, without a church to reside in. These were the dark days of cold and hunger. The lack of sickly sweet ichor sent those with such strong malady into lust, in the absence thereof, and driving them mad to the point of self-asserted pain and toil. Gnashing teeth sliced at the air, strangulating the imaginative throats of their enemies, which were not presented in front of them for the dream to become true. Canines chipped as they clasped around the very rocks on the ground, hands clawed in desperation at any passing animal. To travel is exciting, to journey is tiring, and to trek along the path of war is near maddening. The determined sought through to the end, but not all were so lucky. Thus were the days of the Third Era of the Unspoken Wars.
Word of the passing of Stian Levir had reached my ears, red-hot and glowing as a forge in anticipation, melting the iron-wrought to form, in my mind, a sharp weapon of determination. Gears twisted and turned as my stomach churned alongside with the dread of finally realizing… We were losing. I thought for my troops, as lively and robust as they were, and the plain fact of their inevitable demise. So many had already suffered in the torchings of Dorkarth's fields, the raids which pursued consistently, and not to mention the lack of ichor beyond in those battlefields they religiously pursued against the people of Hedryll. They had taken blood slaves with them, yes, but we had underestimated their stay and the duration of this war. They were running out. And I knew I had to sustain what I had built up for the past twenty years.
I set off with a wagon full of cattle, onward to the edges of Dorkarth where my troops fought off the Hedrylli ships coming in over the breathless horizon in a hot array of lasting pursuit. The blood slaves, in question, were particularly lovely to travel with. It is uncanny, but despite their mundaneness, I had met a certain Varran who struck up lovely discussion on several occasions, that is, when you could look past its inferiority for but a moment. The name now slips my mind, though perhaps I think of it from time to time in a fleeting memory of the dark days.
Through the harsh winter winds of the Dorkarthian lands, we travelled in boiling determination, burning through the snow with a foreign zeal. But the snow did not last forever. As we blazed our trails, our own enemies made their way through the lands after their King had plucked our immortal flower, torch fuming as he continued his tyranny -- They had their own fire. And unfortunate for us, we had crossed their path.
It was a harsh evening, though an evening not unlike any other on the tiresome journey. As we went on, the air thickened, our lungs struggling, until a strange warmth came over the land. Just beyond the next snow-capped hill licked up flames that teased the sky, the very sky that continued to pour its ageing flakes. At this sight, the wagon stopped. I sat, waiting to witness the cause of such a blaze as the men went out to investigate. Screams of terror which echoed through the mountains indicated to me that this was more than I had anticipated.
Peering past flames which rose above the fields in bright array, I saw the menacing countenance of a murderous king, whose malice lapped up above the morning smoke. Though truly I recognized my own malady which was greatly wicked, I recognized that of another — this moment, from one wicked to the other, his own, I recognized it indeed. This mundane man possessed tyranny that was unlike any other great leader. Truly, he was a great leader, I will not deny him of his skill. But a great man is not always good. He had struck down our very nation merely days prior, tearing down all that we had built up, slicing at our very heart. And now I found my own eyes welling up at the smoke which pricked their sting in careful needlework, sewing fear into my mind.
______________
Word of the passing of Stian Levir had reached my ears, red-hot and glowing as a forge in anticipation, melting the iron-wrought to form, in my mind, a sharp weapon of determination. Gears twisted and turned as my stomach churned alongside with the dread of finally realizing… We were losing. I thought for my troops, as lively and robust as they were, and the plain fact of their inevitable demise. So many had already suffered in the torchings of Dorkarth's fields, the raids which pursued consistently, and not to mention the lack of ichor beyond in those battlefields they religiously pursued against the people of Hedryll. They had taken blood slaves with them, yes, but we had underestimated their stay and the duration of this war. They were running out. And I knew I had to sustain what I had built up for the past twenty years.
I set off with a wagon full of cattle, onward to the edges of Dorkarth where my troops fought off the Hedrylli ships coming in over the breathless horizon in a hot array of lasting pursuit. The blood slaves, in question, were particularly lovely to travel with. It is uncanny, but despite their mundaneness, I had met a certain Varran who struck up lovely discussion on several occasions, that is, when you could look past its inferiority for but a moment. The name now slips my mind, though perhaps I think of it from time to time in a fleeting memory of the dark days.
Through the harsh winter winds of the Dorkarthian lands, we travelled in boiling determination, burning through the snow with a foreign zeal. But the snow did not last forever. As we blazed our trails, our own enemies made their way through the lands after their King had plucked our immortal flower, torch fuming as he continued his tyranny -- They had their own fire. And unfortunate for us, we had crossed their path.
It was a harsh evening, though an evening not unlike any other on the tiresome journey. As we went on, the air thickened, our lungs struggling, until a strange warmth came over the land. Just beyond the next snow-capped hill licked up flames that teased the sky, the very sky that continued to pour its ageing flakes. At this sight, the wagon stopped. I sat, waiting to witness the cause of such a blaze as the men went out to investigate. Screams of terror which echoed through the mountains indicated to me that this was more than I had anticipated.
Peering past flames which rose above the fields in bright array, I saw the menacing countenance of a murderous king, whose malice lapped up above the morning smoke. Though truly I recognized my own malady which was greatly wicked, I recognized that of another — this moment, from one wicked to the other, his own, I recognized it indeed. This mundane man possessed tyranny that was unlike any other great leader. Truly, he was a great leader, I will not deny him of his skill. But a great man is not always good. He had struck down our very nation merely days prior, tearing down all that we had built up, slicing at our very heart. And now I found my own eyes welling up at the smoke which pricked their sting in careful needlework, sewing fear into my mind.
