Legacy of Jarmoth: Adria IC

Legacy of Jarmoth: Adria

A gentle breeze runs through the hair of a young man in High Ifferia, he looks up from his work, towards the blue skies, sweat lining his forehead, his sword in his hand. He takes a deep breath and smiles before turning back to his duel, his opponent already charging at him once more. With a shout, the Kenraiton-in-training charges at his fellow student, and the dance of blades begins once more. From a distance, their elderly master watches them, he watches them and the dozens of other young men, ranging from the age of twelve to seventeen, as they duel.

Far, across huge expanses of land, an Emperor sits on his throne, surrounded by men garbed in armour, and around him an aura of greatness, an aura which pervades the air and leaves none untouched. The High Emperor of the Majdal Empire prepares for war in the west, the Mardithians are coming, and it is the Majdalans they come for.
"How long?" the Emperor asks, "How long before the enemy reaches our land" he looks around at the men before him, each a senior officer in the army, each a veteran.
"No more than a month, oh High one" one of them answers, bowing deeply as he does so.
The Emperor gets to his feet, taking a few steps from his throne and towards them.
"Very well, we shall prepare for them an army like none before seen, we shall prepare for them a defeat, we shall cook it for them on passion and heat, so that they may know, as they lie at our feet, who is the greatest, who is the eater, and who we did eat!" he raised his hand, dismissing them all, "Go! Prepare for war! We march at dawn." he turned away from them, breathing deeply, in his eyes a vengeance, a spark.

The land of Mardithia shakes thousands of miles away, as an army larger than any to have passed over it marches past. Horses neigh and men grunt, while armour clangs on the once grassy plains. These are men going to war, each of them marching with the purpose of protecting the homeland from the inevitable attack of those oppressive Majdalans, and at the head of this army, leading it, is the High Thian of Mardithia, the old Wolf who had created so much in his ten year reign, too much to lose to any more encounters with Majdal, it was time to put an end to this age long strife, it was time to decide a victor. The High Thian had no other goal than to be that victor, to watch the armies of Majdal flee once more. To see the enemies who for so long had plagued his land retreat, in humiliation and defeat.
"Mardithiaaaa!" the High Thians voice rose up above the armies racket, and in return, tens of thousands of voices replied.
"MARDITHIAAAA!" voices which shook the shaking earth and split the trembling sky.
"Onward!"

Across the Adrial Ocean, on the other side of the continent lived a much more peaceful people, peaceful people with an army larger than any in Adria. A young Thirrmodian child slowly notches an arrow and aims at the target. His focus is immense, his passion for the bow intense and his love for success greatest of all. He is a child of Thirrmod, the greatest archers in Adria, it was his responsibility to make sure that this reputation lived on forever more, with his generation and with that of hes descendants. It was what he was taught at school, to be the finest, one cannot be lazy, to be the best one must try, one must practise until they reach perfection, and then keep practising until no word can describe the skill. The arrow is loosed.

Beyond the borders of Thirrmod, in the land of Andaluja, an elderly man sits on a rock, his eyes closed, the peace clear in his old face. Deeply, deeply he breathes, and as he breathes he smells what the winds carry, and his peaceful face saddens and his eyes open. A terrible omen the wind with it brings, to carry this so far, of all the things, for in distant lands men do prepare for war, to tear and kill each other as the ancients killed and tore, it brings a thing most saddening for a man who's sad enough, a man who waits for peace and the rise of the white dove.
The old man looks to the skies, and once more a smile on his face appears, no matter what happens, no matter what man does, the Mul'Tee is ever up high, caring for his loyal servants.
"May he bless us as he blessed those before us, and have mercy on us as he had mercy on them" the old man whispers, and as he whispers the winds whisper too, and the old man slowly, ever so slowly, turns to dust, to be carried by that which carries all, to another place that he may sit and and he may contemplate the beauty and ugliness of this here world.

Roran smiled as he saw the old yet vivid man approach. "It has been too long General Beren! I heard my men call you Silvermane today! I don't think it's because of your beautiful horse though! Is that fat starting on your tummy?" Roran laughed, glad to be reunited with his mentor. "Heh! I heard that they called you the young Wolf! Better say the mangled Wolf! You're still as thin as a straw!" Roran escaped from the sturdy and manly hug. They looked at eachother for a while, before continuing at a high pace through the large city, on their way to the halls the king was temporarily residing. He had to wait here for more reinforcementes that had struggled to catch up, and where better than ina large reinforced city? Apart from the the king had taken a day's time to solve some other issues of the realm. Roran would be rewarded with land for his previous deeds, and finally officially join the Thianide class. He wondered where he would be stationed, although he knew the upcoming campaign would happen before that. He hoped it would't be too close to the frontlines so his lands wouldn't be subject to enemy raiders, as his village used to be. "Let's join the Old Wolf then! He's gathering the troops in the courtyard right now though, better hurry! "Oh really? I'm curious to see what my namesake the King will have for plans! Let's join them!" The 2 said, before arriving in the courtyard where an enormous amount of men was forced inside the usually large but now cramped courtyard.


"Mardithiaaaa!" the High Thians voice rose up above the armies racket, and in return, tens of thousands of voices replied.
"MARDITHIAAAA!" Voices which shook the shaking earth and split the trembling sky.
"Onward!"


Roran joined the rising voices before he accompagnied Generel Beren towards the king. He was really curious and had learned from his previous experiences that the Majdalean empire had a very solid army. He couldn't wait to discuss the tactics with the Old Wolf. It seems my lands will have to wait for another day, we're already marching! That means the reinforcements should have arrived! Roran rushed towards the stables and prepared to join the King's army ion their march towards the Southern borders, where rivers of blood would stream in no less than a month.

The courtyard itself was a large set of flat land, flanked by a few structures; a few dormitory, classrooms, a dojo, the teachers ring and, of course, the master’s chambers. A grand sakura tree silently watched, hidden behind a veil of pink cherry blossoms, guarding the master’s house. A song of battle had risen in the enclosure’s center as two students were dancing the dance of battle, the way of the Kenraiton. Swords clang as the blunted blades struck each other, hit after hit being deflected or blocked. It was a battle to behold, the two best students of Ruy Sai’kimo’ school were vigorously dueling. Ruy himself was watching, as was his entire flock, gathered around the courtyard to observe, to learn and to enjoy this most wondrous showing. The old man sat, cross-legged at the steps of his domain. His hair was incredibly long, reaching the lower ends of his back, as they were loosed to enjoy the air that sprang from this fresh day of spring and the battle. He wore a simple kimono of pale green. He smiled as the students were fighting it out. He wouldn’t miss the chance to observe his favorite in action. That was Sun, or Sun Dai’chi, now that he had given himself a name. He had developed great skill under his care, and would become a great Kenraiton. In fact the ceremony was going to happen right after the fight. Many students were to ascend to the title and become fully fledged Kenraiton. His thoughts were interrupted as Sun impaired his fellow combatant.

The young man lifted his sword in the air in a cry of victory. He had won eight battles in a row. This was quite the victory for him. After his short celebration he helped his defeated opponent get up as others cheered for him, a victory that came to no one’s surprise. Sun had acquired many fighting abilities over the years, had learned many styles and had mastered many weapons. By far though, the sword was his favored tool and had even mixed a multitude of styles into his own. His rite of passage was now over. Sun smiled widely at his peers cheers and the applaud they gave him. He looked at his master and mentor. The old man nodded to him. Tonight, he would celebrate this long awaited ceremony, a final step for him. It had been his goal his entire life. Sun marched forward to meet the master and bowed down before him in victory and glory. Both were smiling as Ruy got up to demanded that his future Kenraiton’s come before him. A few students went forward at his request, going to Sun’s side, and bending the knee, as Sun just did, before their master. He was now to make them Kenraiton, all of them.

It was bloody. Gore and entrails hung in the air suspended by forces unseen, heads rolled laughing and taunting, the sky red and dripping with blood. Before him lay an army and an ocean of blood. He stood there looking in horror as he saw dead bodies all of them unrecognisable but their armour revealed it was a war between Majdala and Mardithia. He alone stood there, his body covered in gore and entrails. Crows flew over head and some eating the deceased. The crows nearest to him seemed to whisper. No, he told himself, I'm hearing things, it cannot be. "Killer! Murderer! Monster! Death!" they whispered. The bodies lifted off the ground as if each of them were bloody, torn up dolls being picked up by a delicate but firm hand of a mother for the pieces to be sewn. And so they were put back together before him and were animated. A four eyed crow landed on his shoulders and Arranar's face twisted into pure horror as a roar that would shatter glass emitted from it's throat - Arranar jolted up yelling, his face filled with fear, his built chest going up and down as he breathed in rapid succession made defined by the sweat gleaming off of them.

Furrowing his brows he put his legs over the bed and sat, his hands over his face holding back tears. No! What pain is this that I feel that would cause me, ME! To cry? He held it back as strong as he could for he knew if he let it go he would weep for hours on end. He felt a touch on his back, a cool light touch. He looked back and saw his latest pleasure urging him to go back to bed. He didn't feel like it. Masking his misery in anger he got out of bed and dressed. Just as he was about to put on a shirt a man barged into the suite. A military man. Arranar scowled so deep the man hesitated before putting his head down and handing Arranar the letter and walking out briskly. The letter was sealed with one of the general's seals urging Arranar to head to the barracks to prepare to march.

He didn't know how to feel about this. He was angry, hopeful, and sad. Hopeful so that he may die and be rid of this life, angry because, well he was always angry. And sad for the exact same reason. He put on the shirt and went downstairs to get a drink. The bartender looked at Arranar and instantly gave him a drink, she knew Arranar the most out of her costumers and how miserable he could get. The bartender, Irene her name was, was the closest thing Arranar had to a friend and he cherished it dearly. "I hear you're going out to war," she said in that luring tone of hers. He simply nodded keeping his eyes on his drink. After he drank three times he tried to give her the money, which she refused so many times she almost kicked him out of the brothel. A hint of a smile could be seen from Arranar's face as he shook his head and walked out and made his way to his destination.

Looking at the peaceful skyline of Thirrmod Robin felt at peace with the world. Having been relieved from duties for a few hours she had gone into the countryside, maybe hunt a little, 'mother could do with a good rabbit or two' she thought to herself. The birds that frequented Thirrmod flitted across the setting sky, contrasting sharply with the oranges and blushing pinks of their background.

Hearing her name being called she instinctively dropped into the more dense area's of the tree. Robin! I know your up there, you forget how well I know you! a young mans voice shouted. Jay! Jay had been Robins best friend for years, they had done everything together, learnt to swim in lakes, climbed trees and broken several bones in the mean time! As the leaves started to fall from the tree Robin landed in a heap directly in front of Jay causing her to giggle, 'But Jay, my dear, you forget I know you almost too well also, If I had timed a little better I would have landed directly on top of you!'. 'Well 'Little Bird' lets hope I never have to suffer you landing on top of me you lump!' Helping Robin too her feet, Jay pointed at his watch, Robin was due back on duty at 5:45, it was now 5:40. Without saying a word Jay threw her longbow and quiver and sent her running across the fields like a madwoman.

Majdal was relatively peaceful. The streets, markets and barracks with the chatter of beggars, merchants and soldiers offered little distraction from the capital’s majesty. In fact, it enhanced it. The outer ring of commoners served almost as a contrasting necessity without which the noble aristocrats perched in their grandiose quarters would seem like no more than songbirds: colorful, entertaining, yet altogether useless. At least Excidius thought so. In no way was the Elf a socialist, heavens no, but still he felt that human nobility was no more than an oxymoron. A Majdalan Duke he dined with a few nights before had proved his point of view; the peasant will carefully and cleanly eat the food in front of him while these men with titles could afford waste and a lack of manners. The Arels that had a chance to grow up with the family midwives were taught to genuinely respect humans and their lack of Grace. Excidius did not have that luxury; he was only 186 when he had to strike a deal with Emperor Regulus, relinquishing most belongings, all territorial claims and ordering his caretakers to the next life. It was better for them, and he had only warm thoughts for their well being. As such, he was never taught proper interracial ethics, sneering in silence at the humans, victim of his own Grace and True Sight.

He shook his head and returned to his scrolls and papers. “There must be lore of one in Ifferia. They are too refined...” His search for an Elemantalist to be mentored by continued. For some years now he had been preparing. For what exactly, he never breathed a word, but he kept mentioning to his assistants that the day would come, without much elaboration. It was in such spirit Excidius had taken up hand to hand combat training, focusing on parrying, dodging and disarming, and had been actively searching for a professor of Physical Magic. His Word Magic was almost perfect, his Soul Magic was starting to be satisfactory and Telepathy was slowly but surely awakening, which would naturally lead to Mind Magic. Unaffected by time, becoming an Ani’Magae was near certainty, his natural abilities fermenting and ripening like wine and cheese. However, what he really wanted was Arch Magery. Evolution of his magical bloodline gave him the potential for it, but the elemental magics had minds of their own and he could not tame them without training from a third party.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He rose and strode over to open it, as if floating. It was a castle page. “The Emperor has requested your blessing upon the troops setting out tomorrow.”, said the young man. “I assume they have already gathered in the keep? I will address them from the balcony. Many thanks, Nathaniel.” The page seemed touched The Voice of the Life Bringer remembered his name. Indeed, Excidius was endearing. Not many disliked him, for one reason or another. Because he was a pure blood Elf, hence “exotic”, because he was a major actor in the Majdalan clergy (no one knowing the Arels’ betrayal of trust), because he was soft on the eyes or simply because he spoke in a sweet voice and poetic words. In any case, it seemed to help him get what he wanted and needed, so it was welcome even if it meant human affection.

Excidius locked his research material in his safe - one of the few relics he held from home - and set off with Nathaniel down the long halls of the capital’s castle. “Majdala really is a wonderful place.”, said the page. The Elf glanced at him with an odd and empty gaze. “A rose looks and smells sweet before being plucked - killed - after which it withers. Yet the pinnacle of its beauty remains moments after death; when it is no longer a flower but a gift.” Nathaniel seemed confused. “Your Grace?” Excidius smiled. “What I meant is that beauty multiplies when shared, and I am glad to share these contemplative moments in the castle with you, young one.” The human was satisfied. Delighted, actually. It was not rare for The Voice to have these moments in which he disconnected with reality and gave life to his sinister thoughts through words. However, he was always able to turn it in his favor; be it by words, charm, or even magic when need be. They arrived at the balcony.

Aristocrats and nobles greeted them. Excidius smiled serenely and bowed towards them, they did the same. It was easier to act kind and endearing, it seemed, the more he hated those around him. He excused himself and stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the keep. His stole shimmered in the breeze, appearing as if to float about him with its brass and gold reflections contrasting the violet fabric. The gathered soldiers cheered as they beheld him. These blessings had become customary. They were an age old tradition of nearly a hundred years, for Excidius allied with Regulus at almost the beginning of rise reign. Also, it was a well-known fact that the regiments blessed by The Voice suffered less casualties and injuries. The Elf really brought the Life-Bringer’s gaze upon the soldiers, granting them safe travels and swift victories. He raised his hands to quell the cheering. “Children of Mul’Tee, join me in this prayer.” Silence came and they all gazed at Excidius, unwavering. Whether Atheist, Believer or otherwise, they had heard stories of the benefits the blessings brought and so could only follow suit.

“When faced with my enemy, oh Mul’Tee, gaze down on me. For my Emperor is thy Prophet and I am of light, kin to the creatures you once sent. Death be not my dealing; my blade is as my heart and seeks only peace. Unity will bring calm, calm will bring peace, peace will enable love and bring thy kingdom to earth. We fight today to love tomorrow and burry our weapons the day after that.

When faced with my enemy, oh Mul’Tee, gaze down on me. May my strikes by swift and work done quick. I seek not to be the smith of pain but the harbinger of love and peace. Too long now have your children been divided. We seek not to slay our brothers, but to destroy the walls that would keep us apart.

When faced with my enemy, oh Mul’Tee, gaze down on me.”

Excidius’ Word Magic was powerful. Instantly the soldiers were calm, peaceful, strong but serene. Their eyes shone with the will and conviction of doing good through war. No one suspected the trickery. Part of the act was playing on true human nature: though death impulses sometimes coursed in their bodies, life and renewal was always stronger. By bestowing in these men the conviction and exaggerated sense of being enablers of peace, they would fight through death itself to achieve the goal. Another positive aspect was camaraderie. Excidius made a point of swelling fraternity amongst the ranks with his powers, and as such there were always less and less victims from skirmish to skirmish. The men looked out for each other and fought smarter. It meshed so well with the Emperor’s battle tactics the chance of being discovered was next to inexistent. He had given these men strength, resolve and fraternity, and they would never really know how.

He left the balcony, as if glowing, making way for the aristocrats to perform their standard war speeches. Excidius smiled at Nathaniel and they set off down the halls again. “Brilliant and inspiring, as always your Grace.” said the boy. “You are too kind.” the Elf answered. It was true, though he possessed great oratory talent, he did not like prayers much, and so amplified the magic when addressing troops, ensuring their enthrallment. “My dear Nathaniel. Would it be rude of me to ask a personal favor. I would be eternally grateful.” “Oh! O-of course your Grace! Anything!” The boy was his, finally! He had been working on him for months, a Word here, a Word there, slowly infecting his mind without the need of actual Mind Magic, a type still out of reach. Even so, this hold was much more powerful as the boy now GENUINELY wanted to please Excidius. Such devotion could not be implemented against one’s will; so the Magi slowly steered the page in the right direction, a thought and feeling at a time. “I need you to fetch certain documents from the Grand Library for me. Could you? I would go myself, but I would prefer this part of my research remain secret before unveiling. You, young one, I can trust. You have shown me - I can see it. Just fetch these titles and bring them to my quarters, would you?” He handed him a paper. A page to the Emperor would have no restriction in the Library, it was perfect. Nathaniel bounded for the Grand Library, almost bouncing with glee. He was happy to be able to help His Grace the Voice of the Life-Bringer and had thanked Excidius before parting.

“Most excellent developments.”, and he returned to his chambers.

Al'Ahsor, Priest of the Middle, and the Master of Tongue pushed open the sturdy oak door to Malaghar's modest house he had been living in for nine years now. The sun was blazing down onto the great City of Majdal and cast long and cool shadows down among the streets. Al'Ahsor had just been preaching the words of Mul'Tee to a group of smiths from this city section's forge. There were four sections of the city, generally for the four classes of the Empire. The Priest hated it when benevolence was enforced among the rich and powerful, so they had to be courteous to the lower classes, and he would much rather had preferred a democracy where everyone was treated equally and had some choice of what to do. Majdal at least took some effort to ensure the well being of the peasants and workers, but they were ultimately stuck in that particular job for life, seldom moving up in court unless a great deed was performed. Thirrmod had a good way of dealing with this, with the annual archery competition, and even Mardithia had showed sense in their ways. Majdal was not the worst, but it was also far from the best.
Al'Ahsor would have gladly preached equality for the people and started a rebel cause, but such was not in a Priests ways and they seeked to spread peace without causing war. They were to speak with the Voice of Mul'Tee, and not meddle in political matters. The Priests of the Middle should never seek refuge in court, as there selfish wants could easily bypass the true ways of Mul'Tee. With their strange ability, it must be used for the right purpose, or else they are corrupted by greed and power.

Malaghar was waiting for him, resting on an old chair the man called a great heirloom from his ancestors. The story went of a great court of Elves from Grandia, whom once commanded a war from seven great chairs in a dusty hall. All the Elves were ages old and no longer chose the path to walk, but counsel and advise the peoples to become higher beings. The war was lost against a legion of dragons that lusted to keep power over the races of the continent, so they set the great hall ablaze as the seven on the chairs rested for their last moments. Long after, when Adrians walked on foreign shores, the hall was looted, and so too the chairs. The ancestor of Malaghar claimed the one in the middle, the fourth chair along, and it had passed through the family for generations. Heavy and destroyed it was, so it was not a beautiful sight to see - but it held an epic legacy between the cracked stone and burnt wood. The room itself was large, stone walls with an Ifferian rich carpet and reinforced glass windows. The house was large itself, often mistaken for a small church. It was, in a way, with it's altar of Mul'Tee and markings of the Prophet. But to Al'Ahsor and Malaghar, it was home.

"I have had a raven," Said the older Priest, "Your final task has come upon you." Malaghar was holding over a hundred years now, and his age was starting to show. He probably only had a few decades left. More than enough to return to the Andaal Mountains and live his final moments in rest and meditation, as to maintain a spirit with the Life-Bringer through to the afterlife.
"Oh? Does it bear ill tidings?" Al'Ahsor replied. Most of his tasks through the last decade had been local, all in his section. The two Priests were restricted into the third class, or merchants and landowners, even though they worked no slaves and had no trade. They were seen through by the money that the academy sent them and the supplies, which were purchased with the gold if they ran out of consumables from Andaluja. Al'Ahsor had worked on many of the servicing merchants around as his higher tasks informed, talking with men who sold to the people from all around the city, who could spread the word in his own tradings. In Al'Ahsor's own time, he preached to the peasants and the workers, young children who showed promise and grizzled old men looking for purpose. The Priest's abilities had grown and he now found it easier to speak with men of little will or good hearts. He was known around the towns and called wise beyond his age. Al'Ahsor was still young, quite young indeed, but he seemed to have a higher skill than Priests his own age. Strange.
"I am afraid so, my friend. It seems the Middle has tougher work for you, but this is a task beyond what they were thinking. It would be best if you went out tomorrow, Al'Ahsor, toward the Emperor's walls. You can make your way inside the castle, use your ability on the guards and tell them you need to speak with a family member inside the barracks. At midday the soldiers will gather in the courtyards, they are setting out to war with the Thians of Mardithia. Watch, and wait, my friend, as in my time here I have seen hints of treachery in the court that concerns our own order. When you find out, return here, and I shall give you your task."
It was quite worrying, as Malaghar spoke, the lines on his face grew longer, and he looked a little scared. Nothing really bothered the old Priest, he was an experienced man of no ill repute, but this was obviously something drastic. Also he spoke of a selfish manner of using the ability out of the true way, but Al'Ahsor could not argue. This was necessary, he saw.
Malaghar continued, "Go out and preach, my dear boy. From now on your abilities will be tested."

''And for you, Sun Dai’chi, I give you this sword, may it serve you well in the years to come.''

Ruy handed an Ifferian blade to Sun, which he grasped with both hands. The sword was a beautiful yet deadly thing, balanced in weight and proportion, a harmonious weapon. It was long and slightly curved, sharp on the outer curve of the blade, the handle long enough so that two hands could be used: a katana. On it was a small inscription, reading ‘’The Orphan Wind’’. It was an amazing gift of passage, one he would cherish. He smiled, keeping a serious tone to his face. The ceremony was complete, he was now a Kenraiton. Many of his friends were as well. Fushi, Xuan, Siai, all had been given a weapon that matched their style. All were happy; all had achieved what they desired. Yet something bothered him. He couldn’t quite say what; it felt like a very large part of him was simply missing, a void in his body and soul. He had believed becoming a warrior of High Ifferia would forge the person he was. That he was, in essence made to be just that, a warrior of the Kenraiton. What could possibly be the cause of this? No matter, he thought. He pushed aside his feelings and enjoyed the moment with the ones he called family. As the conversation went, he learned most of them would be heading for Xin’Wu, the capital, to join the army. Was that what was missing? Working as a member of the army? It didn't sound to enthralling, but most were excited at the potential war, looming on the horizon.

''There are even rumors of war between Meridithia and the Majdal Empire, exclaimed Fushi.''

Fushi was a large fellow, almost twice the size of Sun, and a bit taller too. His face was that of a new born though, with fat red cheeks and eyes the size of hazelnut. He was excited at the mere thought of battle that one. And so was Sun for that matter. The thing was the war had nothing to do with Ifferia. It was between two other nations, far off lands he’d probably never see. The thoughts shook him. Was he even in control of his destiny? A train of feelings rushed through him. As if a sudden realization was changing his view of things. He wasn't sure anymore, as if his life had been meaningless. What did it all mean? He stayed at the feast for a while and then promptly left. He needed to think for himself. The young man went to his room in the dormitories. His apartments were small, like every other, very austere in design. A single bed lay on the floor, and a small desk was installed close-by, where he could put his clothes and items. He sat on the ground, the room lighted by a faint moonlight. Sun sat down cross-legged, his back straight as a spear, the years of discipline still fueling his every move. He wasn't prepared for such…freedom. It was as if the need to make a decision was a burden he wasn’t prepared to take. The words of his master still rang in his head.

‘’You need to be your own man Sun, you won’t be have me all your life to guide you.’’

It had been a hard truth, but Sun had believed that taking up a name for himself would deal with the situation. He had been mistaken it seems…So what was he to do? The clogs in his mind were at work, ideas needed to come to him, he needed an answer. But could he even find it on his own? He meditated on the question for what seemed like forever and yet the world had not moved, time had not passed, the moon was still in the sky. He couldn’t find it himself…

He knew then. Ruy would want him to find himself; he would refuse to help him in his quest to find his own self. Sun knew his mentor was right, if he was to know who he was, what he needed and what he wanted, for the boy to become a man, he had to find his own way, on his own.

''I must go on a pilgrimage'', he muttered.

But where should he go? And what was he after? He needed more reflection it seemed. Who did he want to become? His wish had always been to become a Kenraiton... Could the Code be the answer? Yes! Of course! The Code’s interpretations were many. It was made up of multiple words, each a pillar of the Way of the Kenraiton. Perhaps he needed to find his own interpretation of each word. Maybe then he’d understand who he was. He nodded to himself. He knew what he needed to do now.

The courtyard, a large and spectacular place had it not been for the thousands upon thousands of soldiers standing upon it. It's beauty still shown, but dwindled a tad by the presence of the large brutes. Naturally, however, the courtyard's surface is laden with finely crafted marble and polished so masterfully that it would look as if it were shining a great powerful light in the day, and glowing a peaceful, soothing glow in the night. On each side there was gardens of palm trees and of the most extraordinary and rarest flowers. If anyone were to walk by this courtyard on any other day their breath would be taken and their eyes drawn to it as ants are drawn to sugar.

At the head of the courtyard was the palace in which the Emperor lived. A grand building in which now every soldier in the Empire stood before. Thousands upon thousands of waves of men dressed in brass plate vests shining in the morning sun, making the army blinding to look at. Every man who had the strength and courage from all borders of the Empire that was in the army was here today; small men with large beards and muscles so defined to such extremes it was as if they were chiselled from stone; tall, lanky but hardy men; middle-sized men of such muscle mass they could barely bend their arms to their assess; and of course the well-rounded soldier, the group Arranar comprised of. Middle-sized with large, but not hulking, muscles, well defined to a point their mere presence demanded respect and gave off intimidation. Muscles that would cause the eyebrows of maidens to rise in amusement.

There they all stood, everyone different from the other, but all of them brothers in a sense, but not to Arranar. He stood there blending in with the hundreds of thousands of men, wearing the same armour, helmet, spear and shield standing and waiting. His jaws tensed, palpating the muscles on either side of his face making him look far more menacing than he should, his eyes glowed red as they looked forward in front of him and his thin lips sneered. The visible muscles, his arms, were tensed as usual and defined even more by the sweat gleaming off of them. His thoughts were racing of things long forgotten within his past, things he could never get back, things he wished he had done but couldn't.

His thoughts continued until a man came upon the balcony. Arranar's head raised and he looked upon the man, his eyes subtlety zoomed as his muscles tensed and the lenses focused on the man far above. It was not a man that Arrnar had seen it was rather, an elf. He stood there with his robes flowing behind him and the soldiers cheered their war cry as they beheld the immortal, all of them except of course for Arranar. He knew of this elf, his name however he had never payed attention to and never really remembered, he knew of how he could speak and drive men to do things that they wouldn't do otherwise, knew of his prayers that would inspire men to go and kill themselves readily in battle in the name of this so called Mul'Tee. Arranar stared at the creature with fires of hatred with such intensity that the stare alone might have killed him, were it not for the fact he were immortal.

Then it spoke as it raised it's hands to calm the synchronized war cries and offered for them to make a prayer. A prayer? These men didn't need prayer and somehow he felt that the elf knew that. However, Arranar's hatred for politics no matter how grand, didn't mean he was naive of it's ways. His father was a general of a legion and he knew how politics worked if only a little. This elf would not do this unless he had some sort of gain out of it, what use would it bring him to say a redundant prayer to Mul'Tee for a race that was below it going off to kill it's kin? His thoughts were prematurely interrupted howbeit, by the silence and the prayer of the elf that followed.

It seemed as if everyone, every soldier was lulled in by the witchcraft, or so Arranar chose to believe for his own reasons. They gazed upon the creature before them as it's treachery and lies slithered and slimmed out of it's cursed tongue. Oh how it would amuse Arranar to see the elf's tongue removed; itt was only wishful thinking; things that only entered his mind but he couldn't or wasn't able to do for various reasons, in this case because he wanted nothing to do with politics. When the elf finished it's prayer it was as if every soldier was invigorated with new found courage that hadn't been there before, with new power and will to crush their enemies. Every soldier except Arranar. He alone stood there neither howling the war cry nor pumping his spear. He stood there still as a stock for he knew well of his abilities, he knew well how easily his xephos could cleave a body, how easily his staff could impale a body, how easily killing came to him. It was who he was. He was the angel of death. Killing was his nature, bred to kill and destroy man. He needn't any prayer.

His face grew dark as the sun shown over his head, shadowed by the helmet, only the red glowing eyes could be seen from the black void that was now his face engulfed in what looked to be an eternal shadow like the monsters and devils mothers tell to children to keep them in check. But this devil was all too real as steam escaped it's mouth and nose as it breathed and grunted. Behind the shadow one would be able to see a red face twisted in anger, jaws tense, teeth clenched. He stood there calming himself before he threw his spear at the elf and ruined his honour. Maybe another day when the time was right, maybe when the elf did something out of line it would please Arranar to be the one to end it's immortality.

Roran rode alongside the troops as they neared the borders of Mardithia and the Majdalan Empire. The borders between both lands were ever shifting, and Roran looked at the landsape with some melancholy. He started to recognise certain feautures of the terrain, and noticed that they were getting closer to the village he once lived in. When he stood up in his stirrups he could already see the small black dots signifying the presence of his village. Due to his training and previous duties he never had had the chance to visit his village again, eversince that one faithfull day, many years ago. He had lived 12 years in that village, for 12 years long the poor family of farmers, the Hawkins' had resided there. They lived in a bordervillage, the worst place their was, at the complete bottom of society exluding criminals and beggars. But they had been happy. Roran never wanted to be a farmer though. He had always wanted to become a knight, a true virteous warrior, but that didn't mean he didn't like farming. He loved the way the plants grew under his care, how he treated the lands, and the lands treated him back. But there came an end afetr the so manieth skirmish near their village, which resulted in the raiding, actually more like demanding the supplies out of their village. The Majdalans didn't want to raid it, as they were outnumbered, but instead chose to demand resources. The villagers didn't resist, as fighting would bring more dead than the following hunger could have caused. They thought. The following Winter was gruesome, and took the life of many villagers and farmers, although less than the fighting would've caused, enough to make sure they regretetd not fighting. Roran had lost his mother back then, which caused his father to collapse. Less than a year later his father jumped off a cliff to join his love in death. Eversince that day Roran had become a farmers help at a nearby farm. They treated him well at first, but as time progressed, they neglected him. Only the children had compassion and still enjoyed his company, where the adults allowed him to stay for the work he'd do. He could work! After a few years living like this the armies clashed nearby, and he escaped. Now he'd face his own history again, which made him somewhat uncomfortable. He knew the army would halt to rest just 5 kilometers away from his previous home, to continue the march to the borders the next day, but he would take the chance to take a look.

He had really missed the children he once lived with, especially the daughter, she really seemed to understand what he had gone through, and why he was so rebellious since his parents died. Her brother was a funny companion and a good friend, but didn't understand why Roran often felt so lonely and sorry, and adopted his parent's behavior when Roran was like that. Stay away and let the boy be. His sister always comforted him.

He smiled when he remembered those times.

"General Beren, allow me to take a temporary leave from the army tonight. I must visit a place." "Hmm? I was wondering when you'd ask! Go ahead! Visit your home."


And Roran spurred his destrier into gallop, eager to see what had happened the past 12 years.