“I hope what I’ve said will not hurt your campaign,” the young man told the general. The two men stood upon a hill, overlooking the Tyrian army’s camp. Thousands of soldiers worked on setting up tents, fences, stakes and fire pits. The Tyrian general smiled, “No, young chieftain, do not worry about your words. I understand,” he lightly clapped […]
Great roars of thunder rolled in the distance and the sound swept through the plains and bounced off the mountains ahead. The land was all but unknown to you, and then, in the dark and assaulted by the elements, you were hopelessly lost, hungry, and afraid.
Fifty seasons had passed since the end of The Sunder. Memories of the long civil war twisted my dreams into horrid shapes, until I only slept a few hours a night. The memories were part of me, though my old body and mind refused to accept them.
“I miss the music,” he thought. “The women used to sing such wonderful songs. Full of power and beauty.” Only now was Taro beginning to regret his long journey, as the nightly winds chilled his weary bones.
Deep darkness had covered all the land on that moonless night, and all of the other clanspeople had long retired to their tents. Only a grandfather and his granddaughter remained, entertaining the campfire with tales of heroes of ages long past.