The Tale of Heorogar

Heorogar felt it in is heart, that it had caused the great purge of life, and then had given him the ability to bring the world back into its glory. You may have been the one who even brought me back from Gadden, he thought as he watched it frolic on the horizon.

For all the pendant's wonderful sky-fallen sorcery, Heorogar realized within a decade that it did not halt or slow the aging process. His hair became gray and his bones brittle. And while civilization thrived across the world, over the course of many years Heorogar became feeble. He wandered among the cities the people, his people, had created, watched their magnificent battles from far away, all the while wrapped in a tattered cloak that kept his face concealed within its shadow. He heard of Gadden's rise, but knew that for whatever reason he lived in a time long before his birth. It was of little consequence.

On the last day of his life, Heorogar found himself atop a verdant hill, his eyes wandering among the ranks of two gigantic armies that had amassed there before morning. Horses pulling grand chariots trotted back and forth, and the leaders of both sides shouted uplifting speeches to their men. Arrows began to pierce the clouds and hail onto the enemy ranks, and the two sides charged at each other, each screaming taunts and profanities at the other in their own alien tongues. Wonderful, the creator thought to himself, as the ranks met and carnage ensued, even in death my creations are wonderful. From this hail a stray arrow streaked and sailed, its shaft abruptly piercing Heorogar's neck. He coughed blood and dropped to the field, his tight fingers clutching the bloodied shaft. With no reluctance he released his grip, and in peace, let go.

The two armies met, their ranks tangling together in a disorganized mass of gluttony, the clangs of metal upon metal ringing far and wide over the verdant lands. Catapults whipped boulders into the air, and they splashed upon the grass, tumbling about wildly into the onslaught. Horns trumpeted through the screams, the commanders of both sides trying in vain to direct their soldiers, and terror leeched itself onto the courage of the clashing armies. As time rolled by the green earth reddened, slowly but eerily, and the dead soldiers lay upon the ground, their blood quietly draining away before their eyes.

In the midst of the battle, a bearded warrior in the Trachan army named Garamund looked away from the screams and the fray, his axe embedded within the ribcage of an unworthy foe, and on the top of a low hill he saw a lone, cloaked figure fall from a stray arrow. A strange curiosity overtook the barbarian, and for a moment, he thought he saw a glimmer of light where the arrow had struck. Loot. Bullion, he thought as he wrenched the bloodied weapon from the corpse at his feet. Over the course of the next half hour he made his way through the perilous battle to the periphery, his legs carrying him off toward the hill, where he found the corpse alone atop the grass.

Garamund pushed the hood away from the man's face, ignoring the great age expressed in the wrinkles that lined his face. Upon his bloodied neck, an upside-down cross hung. Garamund pulled it away and slipped it over his own neck. In the sky a screech echoed, and Garamund quickly glanced upward, to see the two flapping wings of a strange beast among the distant clouds.