Legacy of Jarmoth: Adria IC
Legacy of Jarmoth: AdriaA 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.
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.