In the first days of Mynochral, the great, coiled serpents were known to dance and play upon the lands and in the skies.
The only creatures that would, before the caress of awakened magic and the fleeting drag of unseen gods’ fingers traced iridescent lines upon the souls of so many races, be known to be more than mere animals. More than what grew from nature. More than what the world waited to bring into being for its own sake.
Dragons were “those creatures,” that brought forth primal, gut-wrenching fears which paralyzed the first people of the knowing races. Their great, glimmering, metallic eyes would hold one in place; entranced by the vast, slitted pupils that were etched from within by a glow that spoke of fires that would consume stone, the twisting, searching power of lightning as from the skies, or the bone-freezing cold that only the tallest mountain peaks could stand against.
In the first years, Dragons alone held that place within the collective psyche of the masses which would later accept other great creatures of myths, the outer planes, and the imaginations of children, heretics, and dabblers in magics beyond their control.
Before the Great Sundering and the end of the First Age, Dragons reined as the greatest unknown.
And some remain, even into the later years of the Third Age, that once knew the world as it was in it’s birth. Wyrm’s of such age…and size…that only the handful of hearty souls to have witnessed the sight for themselves can possibly believe…
In the past, I know I have mentioned that the spark that grows into a story, gaming idea, or even just a component of either, can be as simple as a quick glimpse of something that strikes me, a phrase that resonates, or even just a name that comes to me.
It grabbed my attention the moment I first heard it (thank s to my wife!) and I found myself listening to it a handful of times as I drove to the office, the next day. When I finally arrived, the entire story hung in my memory, envisioned as what might be a music video. No, I had not yet researched the lyrics to it, so the imagery came to me from the tone, the pulse, the feel of it.
Interesting how vivid the story can be, from the power of music…
For those wishing to read the entire story, beginning to end, I offer THIS link to the page where it is now housed.
Vedara had, as all the children of her village had done at some point, usually on an ill-advised dare, made the fall into open air facing the vertical rock face that followed the river on its plunge into the valley. Feet tightly together, hands on her face, forearms pressed against each other before her chest, she counted to three before gulping in the last breath before the pool she knew to be waiting, below.
Her body found the icy grip of the mountain river around her. At once, the stabbing cold water bit her to the core. It squeezed the breath from her and stole any strength she still had in her limbs.
When she came out of the pool into which the river crashes at the end of its descent, she was blue, stiff, and shivering.
But alive.
Not trusting her fingers to tell the truth, she pulled the leather cord at her neck until the pouch slid up and into her view.
Still there. Still safe.
Ice blue lips tried to smile, but relief was quickly stolen from her by a distant howl echoing across the valley only to be met by the rise of others.
Her legs warmed quickly as she forced them into motion. She had to resume the pace she had kept in the fog-shrouded forests above. She had to make it to the black rocks of the distant beach.
She found and kept to the beaten path, knowing now that no weapons crafted or used by the hands of men pursued her.
Before she had gone twenty paces, she saw the twisted bodies of two of the village elders in the foliage nearby. Wise men. Trusted men.
Again, the tempting voice of fear came to her, warning that perhaps those behind were not the only enemies within the valley.
Again, she ignored those fears. She knew for certain she was pursued form behind. She knew for certain, although she could not explain how, that safety awaited her on the shores of the sea, if only she could reach them.
As she ran, gaps in the canopy allowed the warm touch of the sun to join with her own efforts and her clothing began to leave trails of steam as she passed. The howling came sporadically, gaining on her a bit each time, but the speed of her descent allowed a lead that granted her some chance to stay just out of reach.
Some, small chance, she knew.
Her mind retreated into itself, afraid to acknowledge the exhaustion that was seeking to overtake her body as she pushed harder and harder to reach the end of the path, the edge of the valley’s forest.
She passed the broken bodies of still more of her clan. Men and woman of great skill and courage.
Men and women she had known and admired all her life.
Their bodies torn from behind, taken as they fled down the path she now followed.
It was as the sound of waves finally came distantly to her ears that she rounded a twisting bend and came crashing to the hard-packed ground, a shriek escaping her lips even before the pain of her fall had a chance to scream into her thoughts.
There, in the center of the path, the bodies of her father and brother lay. The ground around them was churned as only fierce battles could scar it. Her father’s broken body lay across the legs of her sibling, who had cradled the patriarch of the family against him in the last moments of his own life. At her father’s left hand, his ax lay with broken haft. At her brother’s right, the sword their grandfather had given him was scattered in shards.
Her brother’s left hand gripped her father’s right tightly to his chest. The older man’s eyes, open and glazed in death, stared up to the skies. Her brother’s were tightly closed in agony beyond the wounds that took his life.
Vedara’s eyes clouded with anguish at the sight of them. Her chest burned and tightened. Her legs went numb. She could not bring herself to rise, as waves of pain washed over her, and her body heaved with each gasping breath.
She would have stayed there, the passage of time lost to her, had the howl in the distance and the breeze through the trees not awoken her spirit.
For the savage call, her jaw tightened and her resolve hardened. Her hands again went to pouch and weapon.
Still there. Still safe.
In the breeze, though, lay something left behind for her. In that passing touch, the branches of the towering trees shifted and a lone ray of the low, golden light of the sun passed into the clearing around her beloved kin. There, in its glow, she saw the strength of the love that her brother had shown, keeping him at his father’s side.
In her mind’s eye, she saw the moment with absolute clarity. She saw her brother choose family over purpose and she loved him all the more for it.
But she knew, too, that this was not her path to follow.
Coming to her feet, then, she wiped her tears away with shaking, bloodied hands and bowed to them both with reverence.
Another howl, closer still, and she launched herself down the path. Her tears slowed as her pace quickened. Her breath deeper and her body forgetting all that had come before, she raced toward the rocky shore that lay ahead. She drove on with everything she had, determined to reach the ocean, even if it was simply to die there, on something of her own terms.
When she cleared the wall of trees, the sight of a gold and white sail fluttering in the breeze met her, a longship moored to a small dock holding her gaze for a moment, with the golden light of the dawn seeming to shine from upon its deck.
The thought fluttered through her mind that it was lower than when first she left the village, but her thoughts didn’t grasp the meaning of this.
She stumbled toward the longship, her feet starting to drag as weariness rushed back over her in waves. She clutched the pouch, again, and willed her legs to move. Forcing each step across the black stones, then the old planks of the dock.
When her hand touched the smooth, warm wood of the ship, she heard growls from behind.
Pulling herself up to as tall as she could, she turned to face them. Her body screamed in protest, but her will refused to hear it.
There, between the trees and the ship that her heart told her would carry her to safety, a line of wolves stood still and staring at her. Their eyes bored into her, as they had before. Their teeth shone in the sunlight, lips curled back in savage hunger. Each one unique. Each one looking at her with a subtly different hunger.
She stared back. Her hand dropped to the hilt of her sword, but she had barely the strength to grasp it. She knew she had no chance to win this fight but refused to give up without honoring her family in battle.
A howl met her resolve, long and drawn out. As it echoed from the trees around them, it shifted into a deep and rolling voice.
“If you but drop your blade, we will take pity upon you. You cannot hope to defeat us.”
As the one who spoke uttered those words, it shifted back on its haunches then came to standing on its hind legs. When the wolf pelt fell to the ground, there stood a tall and powerful man.
His eyes still feral. His teeth still sharp and anxious.
She smiled, then, as she began, finally, to understand and her mother’s oft-repeated words issued forth from broken lips.
“There is not one among us that fails to hear the voice of fear. But the cowards are those who choose to heed it.”
Rising to their feet, the others howled at this. The sound of it beat at Vedara’s ears. Each, in turn, shedding the pelt of a great wolf and revealing the bodies of other men and women. For a moment, she allowed her eyes to close, and heard their voices, separate and clear.
Each one called to her with a voice distinct and powerful. Each one’s message different from the others.
“I have nothing for you, as you have nothing for me,” she heard herself say to them, her body filling with energy and power as she spoke.
Turning aside, she climbed over the side of the longship and found, to her wonder, that the glow and warmth of the sun now seemed to come from just before the mast at the middle of the craft. Trying to squint through the glare and fury of that light, she thought for a passing moment that she saw the trailing cloth of a golden dress splayed upon the wood.
Avoiding the glow, she turned to face the shore.
The men and woman called to her, some angry, some imploring, some seeking to tempt her. Threats, promises, pleading, lies, and memories were flowing into a stream that rushed toward her only to be broken apart and cast aside in shards, as if they were a flow ice shattered upon a great stone that held strong against the onslaught.
As their calls remained unanswered, they trailed off and eventually faded.
“Enough!” The sun, behind her, called at last. The voice low and terrible, like thunder rolling across the skies. “She has made her will known and you must abide by it!”
Vedara felt the warmth of that sun descending to her, then hands upon her head, pressing gently against her copper-red hair. At once, the flow of energy into her mind and body was terrifying and exhilarating. She felt the light of it shining in her soul and knew that she, too, would bring it forth as had her mother.
The woman whose hands had come to rest upon her head.
Finally, she opened her eyes again and saw only wolves before her. No teeth shone in the bright sun. All eyes were downcast, looking at the small, smooth stones that lined the shore of the sea. Heads bowed in what may have been respect.
She knew for certain, then, that they could only set their teeth upon her if she allowed it.
She saw that the light of the sun shone from her own eyes, bathing all before her with the glow and warmth that followed her own vision. The wolves cast long shadows into the trees behind them, the began to fade from view, their bodies giving way to a haze or mist that quickly dissipated.
Turning away from land, she found herself alone in the cupped body of the great ship as it slid from the dock.
Her mother was long gone.
Sitting upon the warm wood, with the smell of the sea and the gentle rocking of the longship, she peacefully drifted into sleep.
A smoldering shard of tree branch in each hand threw the welcome scent of the rich wood into the mix but failed to overcome the metallic edge of blood that hung in the thick fog around her. In the shifting shadows and mist, she heard nothing but her own heartbeat.
Those hands, worn and colored with age, still clutching to the makeshift torches that Thegel, the village baker, must have grasped in desperation, seeking to fend off those that had come for him.
Vedara didn’t feel her own fingers as they grasped a ringlet of her long, copper-red hair to wedge it into the corner of her mouth. The hand remained there, pressed hard against her lips.
With eyes as blue as ice, and opened as wide as ever they could be, she simply stared at the broken and twisted body of the weaver, as it lay in a crimson pool slowly oozing writhing tentacles along the ruts in the road. The hiss as one creeping line of blood reaching dwindling embers drew her gaze away from his frozen, terrified face. She realized for the first time that the hand which grasped that make-shift torch belonged to an arm that had been torn free from the rest of him.
The rasping sound of her own breath broke the trance threatening to keep her, and she saw the hazy shapes of others, all around her.
Throats torn. Skin shredded. Limbs twisted and broken.
Her village, dead.
How had she not heard anything?
How had she not known?
Fear and despair washed over her, and she found herself on her knees, breath stolen, arms falling to her sides until the tips of her fingers met the warm, wet earth and the metallic scent of blood in her nostrils won its struggle against the dwindling smoke.
The sudden sense of weight against her chest drew one hand from the ground, just as her tears finally broke free, having found their chance to join with the foggy, shrouded world around her. The hand that strayed to the front of her tunic came to the bulge of the leather pouch her mother had given to her just as guttural sounds pushed through the heavy air to her ears.
The powerful, feral snarls, driving through the fog behind her on the left and right, brought her consciousness flashing back, her legs immediately heeding the call to drive up and forward with all her might. Not looking to see how close they had drawn but knowing that they were rounding the sod-covered home of her mother, she launched herself toward the roaring call of the river that connected her village with the sea.
Her mother, the thought passed through her mind for a moment, she knew was not left behind in her home, although Vedara did not understand how she knew this.
A moment later, she drove into the embrace of the forest, her memories and the sound of that river her only guides in the darkness of the fog.
The branches tore at her skin and clothes as she half ran, half stumbled through the deepening woods.
The sting of her streaming tears sought to draw her attention to the fresh and bleeding wounds upon her cheeks, chin, and lips with each step.
If only she had a moment to feel the pain.
Scraped and bloodied hands held before her, their edges leading the way, she shielded her eyes as she veered left or right, around bushes and the rough trunks of tall pines.
As she sprinted near the old path, the bodies of two more of her fellow villagers almost registering in her frantic mind. The glint of silver remained in her thoughts more than the men, the coins spread across the dirt, where they had fallen when those carrying them had been taken.
Vedara glanced ahead on the beaten trail, but veered back away from it, as her brother had taught her.
“Arrows and axes fly straight,” his faintly recalled voice whispered in her ears, “and so you must not, lest they find you.”
Again, the tears came.
Where was her brother?
Where was her father?
Why did she hear no sounds of fighting or the shouts or cries of her kin?
Her mouth tensed against allowing more than her tears, her teeth gritting as she passed over the beaten path once again.
A faint glow caught her eye, through the swirling mist and the branches of the trees. One ray of sunlight, skimming the top of the cloud that filled the valley around her. One streak of golden, beckoning warmth above her.
The flash of color called to memory the copper-red hair of her mother and her legs drove harder against the firm ground, driving her forward with more purpose.
Bursting out of the brush for a moment, one hand dropped to grasp the bulge of the pouch, its drawstrings tied together and looped about her neck, before returning to guard her eyes as she plunged into the next twist in her route.
Still there. Still safe.
She knew that the old bridge must be near, for these woods were the playground of her youth and the call of the river, where it struck the old, mossy stones at the bend before the crossing, filtered into her senses. Drawing near to the path, she glanced over as it made the twist to the right before making the arcing leap across sixty feet of icy, raging waters.
Bodies.
Her steps faltered, almost driving her to the ground.
Verrid, son of Faeolyn, lay there. The man who had once sought her hand. The young and proud warrior first-born of the old chieftain lay with eyes wide, mouth agape, before the collected bodies of a dozen others.
She knew, in an instant, that they had chosen to make a stand at the bridge.
Chosen to face an enemy that had come into their lands to deal in the cold stillness of death, the younger warriors thinking themselves strong enough to prevail. For an instant, fear gripped her. The voice of it whispering to her that more enemies may still await her if she pursued her course.
She discarded the thought, for she had no better path than that which lay before her. She knew for certain only that death waited for her in the village.
The thick arms of thorny bushes beyond the path grabbed at her for an instant. Enough to bite into her flesh mercilessly but also enough to keep her from tumbling to the ground as trembling fear tried, again, to take hold.
An animalistic grunt escaped her lips for an instant. The only outward sign that she registered the fresh wounds, at all. The bite of the thorns pulled the images of the dead from her vision, the bridge left behind as she picked up speed again.
At the next, brief clearing, her hand quickly patted at her chest, again.
Still there. Still safe.
Before she met the next wall of brush and twisted branches, she caught that which she hoped had been left behind.
The sounds of movement echoed, muted by the fog. Some well away to her sides, and others more closely behind her. Even as her legs kicked all the harder, her senses filled with flickering reminders of what lay behind and the memories drove her on.
The pursuers seemed to keep pace easily, despite Vedara having grown up amongst these woods and knowing, without looking, where to reach for a longer step to avoid old logs or root holes or where the ground gave way to a rivulet winding toward the rushing waters that remained in the distance to her side.
As she drove herself on, tears streaked the accumulating blood and dirt on her cheeks, almost leaving stripes of cleaner flesh in their passing.
Her breath starting to come harder with both the strain of her flight and the mounting pain of her memories, she charged toward yet thicker brush, hoping to put her pursuers even just a moment farther behind before she reached the distant churned and crashing sound that began to seep into her consciousness.
Another streaming line of morning light drew a skyward glance from her, lifting her spirits for an instant, before being engulfed in the fog that roiled against it. In its passing, the dark images lost their hold. In its momentary touch on the fringe of her world, in that moment, she felt the rush of her own pace increase, despite the resistance of the route she now followed.
Her heart beat hard but steady. Her breath perhaps leveling off. Beyond that, her tense grimace gave way to a crooked sneer as her fear started that inevitable shift into anger which comes from surviving the first brush with death, even as its source remains intent upon you.
Behind her, the sounds of movement lost ground, but were drawing together as the sheer walls of the river canyon closed in. Each minute of her flight narrowed the space around the deep and powerful river.
Finally, she burst through the last wall of brush and onto the great slab of stone that marked the narrowed end of the long canyon in which her village had stood for generations. The stone shelf upon which the river rushed reached into the open air at the top of the long valley, the timeless passage of that flow having carved a deep rut in the slab, through which the turbulent waters charged with blind fury, then launched into nothingness and fell with a roar.
Vedara came to a stuttering stop there, her leather boots just within the swirling edge of the river’s flow, her eyes drawn to the sight before her. She had known it since her father first brought her this way, those many years before, but the beauty of it seemed new and alive in this moment.
The long valley fell away from the narrow gap where her beloved river passed, with thick forests lining the steep slopes on both sides and the long run of the lower river glinting in the sunlight as it passed well below her toward the open sea – framing the opposite end of the vast, green rift that lay before her. On all sides, the morning mists of those forests were being driven up the slope, like great, searching arms of giants climbing out of the valley floor, collecting at the open gap around her and flowing in an ever-thickening fog into the canyon from which she had just emerged.
Beyond the valley, at the shores where she knew smooth, black stones collected to form the beach, the sun met her gaze with its golden glow and enveloping warmth. It seemed low on the horizon, almost within the rolling waves, themselves, but its touch filled her with hope.
And courage.
Glancing to her right, beyond the forty feet of churning waters, her gaze drifted briefly to the stone steps her people used to pass from the path down to the valley floor. She shook her head, as she saw them for what they would be, a delay ending in death, even if she could find a way to them, and instead she stepped forward to the end of the stone sheet that carried the waters out into the open expanse beyond.
When she turned, the soles of her boots now fully in the flow at the edge of the river and her heels resting on nothing, they were there, standing still and patient in a line along the edge of the thick woods.
The eyes snatched and held her attention, immediately, her legs almost giving way as her heart clenched in her chest. Feral, flared wide, and terrifyingly primeval they bored into her. The skin of her neck and arms crawled as their gaze roamed over her, the hunger felt as surely as if the snarling teeth that accompanied them were sinking into her already broken flesh.
Her left hand went to her chest. To the pouch that remained there, snugly in the folds of her clothing. The right fell to the hilt of her sword.
As one, the snarling mouths seemed to draw into cruel, hateful smiles, and the massive wolves each took a step toward her.
From her lips, her father’s words slipped out.
“More important than the skill to wield the blade is the wisdom to know when it should be drawn forth, at all.”
With that, a sneer, and a slight tip of her head to one side, she stepped backward as the creatures before her lunged.
Kept dear in the hearts of the first Syl, in their most sacred of forests and the foundation of the living cities that those lands provided to them as their home, grew the Vanatheon. The massive trees that took root at the beginning of all flora tower above the landscape in great domes that shelter and protect the race that many believe they consider their charges to protect.
Known as the Willoaks to the various Erigin bloodlines, for the farthest reaches of their spreading branches sprout tender and flowing vines that seem, at first glace, as frail and wind-swept as the willows that grow in the quiet river valleys.
Not so, for one who has centuries to watch in amazement as those slender shoots entwine about the seeking tendrils, branches, and trunks of the other great Vanatheon around them, growing the hardened bark and girth than allows them to become almost one, embracing each other as they continue to grow.
In the vast cities of the Sylvae, the emerald-eyed Syl that remain true to and connected with the forests from which their first ancestors arose, the Vanatheon grow in ever widening rings, encircling the Mother Tree that has given life to each ring that strives to support, connect with, and defend her.
In the oldest of these, Vana’Te’Elenon, the Mother Tree towers more than six hundred feet above the forest floor, with branches reaching more than half her height to all sides, embracing the limbs of her first children, those Vanatheon who stand only slightly less than her massive height.
So it goes, with each encircling tier younger and more populous, until the outer edge, the farthest reach of the interconnected beings that are known as a Vanatheon Rise, has extended almost two miles from the great trunk of their Mother Tree.
Throughout, all of the Vanatheon within this family are linked in ways that only the wisest of Syl Sages can begin to fathom; their thoughts, shared. Their hopes and dreams formed from the experiences of each as one.
At the first dawn, there were people dwelling upon the lands, each in their own way. People who knew and understood something of themselves as if taught this by the very world around them…or perhaps by their own deepest souls.
These have come to be called the Knowing Races, to honor that first realized sense of self. That somehow inherited understanding of their place within Mynochral.
Come, then, to the briefest look at these first people, if you wish to know a little bit more…
On the eastern shores of the Surrounded Sea, between the northern tip of the peninsula that is the Kingdom of Tanzenel and the southern shores of the Syl lands known as Shil’Ta’Vel, there lies a passage through which the waters of that inner sea reach out to seek the greater spaces of the Sungiver Sea and the open waters of the ocean called the Starflow, beyond.
Through this channel, at times little more than a dozen miles across, the eastern tides shift and flow. The only outlet for the churning waters when the twin moons draw together and the tides are at their most powerful, the Straights of Penza take the brunt of this as it crashes forth from the Surrounded Sea. Pausing briefly in a vast bay between those lands, the channel narrows again into the gap known as the Rush.
Named by early sailors, the narrowest part of the channel can boast of currents that no ship can resist with rocky shorelines and jutting outcroppings that promise only death for those fool enough to risk hugging the coast and making the passage at its worst.
For those that live on and around these waters, the stories of the mariners point to something yet worse, as the great gouge that the timeless passage of these currents has carved into the floor of the channel is rumored to run almost impossibly deep. In places, so the stories go on, there is no bottom for a broken ship to settle upon.
And in the flickering of what sunlight tries to find its way into these waters, the shadowed outlines of great leviathans are sometimes claimed to be seen, racing with the surge of the tide as if seeking to outpace the draw from the moons and the crest of the surge as it crashes through the Rush and into the open ocean, beyond.
Set upon a rise in the earth, within the Queddsef port city of Tikla, the Tower of Sight extends toward the skies like a white finger that points to some truth that perhaps lies within the clouds…or beyond them.
Standing some 300′ in height, its white stone stands out for miles around, calling those seeking insights and knowledge to the only blemish upon her sheer and seamless surface.
The lone entrance, a pair of doors carved of stone and wrapped in bands and plates of a metal known to be harder than the finest steel, is said to see into the very souls of all who approach it; revealing to those within, the attendants who carry the responsibility of protecting the people and secrets of The Tower, all the wants and needs of each who present themselves. The Tower sees travelers from all parts of Mynochral, although many are turned away when they arrive, regardless of the length of their journey.
The chosen few who are granted entry find themselves in a place steeped in lore and the power of magic that is so focused on seeing and knowing all that occurs throughout the many kingdoms of Mynochral that it is said the air hums with its energy. Her Great Library contains texts from all of the ages of the world, and her residents, both novices and masters alike, are charged with adding to this knowledge whenever and wherever they can.
The Tower of Sight exists to seek the truth, to see what is to come, and to know what has already come to pass, for the sake of learning from the lessons of time and creating a better future.
The shattered bowl, the last remnant of the life he had left behind, lay cupped in his trembling hands. The smaller shards slipped through the gaps between fingers, his arms twitched each time, barely resisting the urge to seek to recapture them before they could reach the ground.
It wasn’t that the bowl was particularly beautiful. It lacked the shine it had once possessed, and the color, the burning orange of a sunrise captured from a mountaintop, that had long before faded to faint yellows in places. In others, barely a pale shadow of even that.
It was that this had been the bowl his mother had fed him from, those long years before. Each spoonful gently stroked against its rim to loosen the broth that may have clung in hiding the underside of it’s well-worn, cupped end.
One tear, he allowed himself.
One tear to pay homage to the love of his mother, the peace of his childhood, and the warmth that those memories brought to his breast…one final time.
With hands already returned to the strength and steadiness that comes from a long years of discipline, born of necessity in the fires of what his life had become, he placed the remaining fragments upon the oaken table at the mouth of his tent.
They came to rest beside the small but spreading pool of broth that he had almost finished and the arrow shaft, which stood arrogantly at attention with it’s wickedly sharp tip buried within the wood where the bowl had briefly rested, just moments before.
Taking up his helm and cradling it in the crook of his elbow, the man came to the jagged edge of the rocky plateau and gazed down the steep rise that fell away to the broad flatlands below, ignoring the risk that the same archer might pose.
Men and beasts moved about there, in massed and synchronized formations. Clouds of dust sought to obscure them, but the faint breeze that drifted in from the distant shoreline offered both the cool scent of the sea and no place for the churned earth to linger. Their banners fluttered gently in the passing flow.
His last, lingering connection to the idealistic child he had once been was broken, seeming to take with it the love and compassion to which he had been taught to cling.
His hands, with fluid grace and no hint of urgency, brought the cold, steel helm up and slipped it over his head. They dropped to rest upon the twin axes that waited, tucked within his worn, leather belt, as he turned toward his closest advisors.
He gave them a solemn nod and snatched up his towering battle axe from where it leaned against his chair. The long face of it’s notched blade glinted in the morning sun, as he turned it over his in hands.
This had once been a struggle to keep his people free. To defend them against those that came to these shores in search of plunder and slaves. To drive the invaders from these lands and force them to return to the sea and wherever they had come from, beyond.
To be done with those that had once taken his mother from him, long before.
Those that now had taken the last thread that connected him to what that woman had represented to him, in his earlier life.
Those that would pay the price, with the final thread that had kept him here broken, releasing the grip that had kept him in check.
He felt the cold of this spread within him, as he looked upon the enemy and hungered for the first time not just for their defeat and expulsion from his homelands…but for their end.
