It was a warm summer’s day atop the mountain, where the Monkblood Stronghold of Monsyaf proudly sat, blocking out the sun from the valley below. Huge beacons of stone protruded from the cliff faces, forming a great citadel in which only a small few lived.
Inside the walls, peaceful gardens swayed with a mountainous breeze, and the maroon fabrics the Monsyaf inhabitants wore danced in unison. Birds sang as they took solace in the peach tree blossoms, and frogs croaked quietly in the tiny ponds that lay beneath. But there was one that, despite the peace, could be anything but.
Jahrun was making a racket on the balancing beams, hopping from one to another as if gravity had no influence on his monkey-like self. He leapt and flipped from beam to beam, his center of gravity perfectly balanced as the wood rocked from side to side slightly with each foot placement. In the sun, his jet-black hair shone brightly, and with his robes they created a dance of their own as Jahrun continued to practice. However, he was taken off-guard by a sudden voice.
“We train to fight our foes, not dance with them!” barked Walud, anther one of the Monks, though of lower ranking than Jahrun. However, unlike most, Walud despised his peer, rather than admired him – and this was much to Jahrun’s annoyance. “Why must you jump around like a rabid ape?”
Jahrun made on last flip, a purposefully impressive one, off of the beams and landed softly onto the stone they were imbedded into, coming face to face with Walud as if it were just as easy as walking up to him.
“Would you want to fight a rabid ape?” Jahrun asked cockily, a slight smirk on his face and the size difference between the two became clear once again. Walud was a strong fighter, but Jahrun was of a Master rank – the youngest of his kind, and as a result he lacked the humility and grace that usually came with it.
“I am not here to exchange childish blows,” Walud retreated, a scoff escaping Jahrun’s lips as he went “I am here to tell you that the Grand Masters have requested for you, immediately.”
“Then I suppose I shouldn’t keep them waiting,” Jahrun purred as he pushed past his younger peer, Walud shooting him a look as his shoulder was knocked backwards suddenly “Probably important business. I’ll let you know if you’re worthy of such knowledge.”
Jahrun's legs carried him with a hasty spring as he made his way through the Citadel and up to the Council Chambers, located at the very top of the Stronghold. It was a hefty climb, but for a young Monkblood approaching his peak, it was a forgiving 22 minute sprint, exactly. And as the young monk tirelessly came to a halt at the huge brass doors that had kept the Council Chambers unscathed for centuries, he couldn't help but think what awaited him on the other side. Praise, most likely. Perhaps a reward of some kind? For outstanding performance in combat, surely. He was undefeated among his peers, this much was true. Unfortunately, however, the truth was that Jahrun was completely ignorant towards the matters at hand.
The doors let out a metallic howl, and slowly began to part in the middle. But there was no blinding, heavenly light on the other side. Instead, there was a single man.
He was dressed head to toe in long, grey robes, an ominous hood masking his face. Only a weathered beard poked out, and it swayed up and down as the man spoke.
"Enter, child." the man spoke softly. Jahrun bowed for a moment, before following the man inside.
This wasn't the first time Jahrun had been in the Council Chambers, though it was the first time in recent years. Jahrun had been brought in here exactly fifteen years ago, when he was taken in by the Monkbloods and initiated into the Brotherhood. The ritual was underwhelming overall, but an experience nonetheless, one that would stick in the back of Jahrun's mind to this very day. And as his bare feet stepped onto the cold marble floor, the sound of his own footstep echoing inside the great hall, towering over him from all angles as it was, brought back the memory. Like a steel fist.
"What do the Grand Masters ask of me?" Jahrun asked, forgetting his place instantly. He was not rewarded with an answer. Instead, he got a long, painfully slow stroll through the Cathedral-esque quarters that acted as the beating heart of the Monkblood Stronghold of Monsyaf. Though as grand as it all seemed, the atmosphere was blacked over, shadowed from whatever gave the rest of the Citadel such radiance and aura. The entire Strong may be made of stone, but the Council Chambers felt unnatural.
Eventually, the robed man led Jahrun to the far end of the hall, where a raised platform curved around a stage-like area, staring down from above like a theater. Here, Jahrun was the performer, and as he looked upwards towards the raised platforms, he saw six figures, each sat in their own stone seats. Simultaneously they stood, each figure's eyes locked on Jahrun's presence beneath pure black cowls. Their robes reached down to the floor, creating a sea of cloth at their feet, and their limbs were hidden from sight by the intricate details in the fabric. But, from where he was standing, Jahrun only saw six menacing figures, staring down at him, their motives unknown.
Jahrun looked back at the grey-robed man who had led him this far, but all he had to give was a simple bow of the head, before he dematerialised into the shadows like sand caught in the wind. Jahrun turned back, then bowed his head low.
"Grand Masters, may I ask why you have summoned me?" Jahrun asked the floor, his eyes fixated on his own feet, lest they stray somewhere dangerous.
"For years this Brotherhood has protected the many Provinces of this Realm." began one of the Grand Masters "The peaks of its mountains, the islands of its shores, and the hearts of its cities - our influence was omniscient, but our presence was a myth. We were, and still are, the guardians of this land. Are you aware of this, Jahrun?"
"Yes, Grand Master. A Monkblood's duty, as a member of the Brotherhood, is to do all he can for the good of the Realm." Jahrun recited, preying he got it right.
"And why is this?" another Grand Master called in, this time a softer, motherly voice. Jahrun quickly replied.
"Because true peace can never truly be. The people are too blind, their leaders too corrupt. We must parent this land, in hopes to not reform it completely, but to guide it to a new state." There was a passing silence from the answer, and for a moment Jahrun thought he could feel his heart running down his leg.
"Yes. We are not rulers, we are a service. One none need pay for, such is their right. Such is our destinies..." another Grand Master, Jahrun's head darting to the source with haste "But not yours, Jahrun."
Confused, the young monk said nothing, and instead awaited enlightenment.
"Are you aware of The Prophecy, Jahrun?" the motherly voice asked.
"Word for word, Grand Master." Jahrun replied strongly.
"Then you will know of the cause for it." the voice continued.
"Yes, Grand Master. The coming of Tuskan. An almighty God. The World Eater, as some scrolls have referred to it... but a story I never truly believed." Jahrun looked to the floor, gathering his thoughts quickly as if that's where they were scattered. @Forgive me, Grand Masters, but I must ask... have you summoned me to test my knowledge of the Brotherhood?"
A single chuckled emitted across the walls just loud enough for Jahrun to hear.
"The time has come, child." announced an unheard voice, but one Jahrun definitely recognised "We have received a sign. A vision. The end is nigh, for the coming of Tuskan is upon us. And you, child, are our saviour, as the prophecy had foretold."
And just like that, the biggest news of Jahrun's life had just been invested upon him. The urge to burst into a belly laugh was the first sensation that ran through Jahrun's body, but as he came to realise his situation - inside the Council Chamber, in the company of the Grand Masters, he realised there was little to laugh about here. Instead, Jahrun took a deep breath, and asked his next question.
"How long do we have?"
"It is unclear, but the Council have estimated six month's until the end comes. The Realm will become aware in three month's time." answered one of the Grand Masters.
"And I am lead to believe that this is the truth, for you envisioned it?" Jahrun snarled, ovrstepping a mark.
"You question our gifts, boy?" came a much harsher voice, putting Jahrun back down into his place.
"No Grand Master, but you must understand my skepticism. Why me?" he asked.
"We are merely guides, Jahrun, you know this full well. We cannot provide the answers, only show you the way." assured the motherly voice "You must travel to Sovendaal, a small hamlet East of the River Mort. Once there, ask for a farmer named Hands. He will guide you further."
"And what of here? Am I to simply leave home?" Jahrun asked, panic in his voice, anger, even.
"This is not about you, Jahrun. It is about something far bigger than yourself." snapped a voice once more "Do you not realise, child, that this is the start of your service?" The question bounced off of Jahrun's mind like an insect, and he quickly moved onto his next worry.
"And of the people? They will be informed, yes?"
"To what purpose, child? The last thing the Realm needs is for its people to burst into panic." the same voice replied, disallowing Jahrun's escape "Otherwise, we don't die together, we die apart. Do NOT compromise the Brotherhood."
"You leave tomorrow, at first light." came another voice "A horse will be ready for you. Dismissed."
With little left to say anyway, Jahrun quickly span on his heels and marched out of the Council Chambers. Then, his march turned into a jog, until finally the young monk was sprinting full speed through the Citadel gardens with only the comfort of his room in mind. And as he jumped onto his light bamboo bed, and dug his head deep into his pillow, the man began to weep.
---
The next morning Jahrun awoke with sore, tired eyes. He was quickly ready, though. Jahrun had learned from an early age to consciously block our apposing thoughts, allowing himself to focus only on the task at hand, devoid of emotions that might otherwise alter his course. And so, Jahrun hopped onto his black horse Milia, with only a sack full of supplies and the robes upon his body.
"Might be best to avoid The Capital on your way down, and instead go around towards Woodfoot." came a familiar voice. Jahrun, tired and tunnel-minded, looked down to see Walud's face staring right back at him. He had been readying his horse the entire time.
"Uh... why?" Jahrun asked, still trying to adjust to his greatest enemy adjusting his reins.
"There's a Realm Meeting happening in the Great Forum. Might be best to stray away from that kind of attention." Walud explained. And, like magic, a wave of motivation and hope washed over Jahrun like the cold tides of the North. A smirk forced it's way onto his face as his eyes brightened, a better idea stewing in the man's grey matter.
He looked down to Walud, only to see that he was now holding up a parcel to him. Jahrun took it, and examined it.
"New robes." Walud explained in a surprisingly non-opinionated way "The Grand Masters instructed me to give them to you."
"The Grand Masters instructed you to do something?" Jahrun asked. Walud nodded. "Then may the God's help us, the Brotherhood has officially fallen.@ he mocked before spurring Milia and galloping out of the Citadel gates, unto the horizon below.
