Origin Of Stars

 Far away in the distance, there was thunder. Below, the soft loam boomed. It was cold and damp, the dew settling on the sparse grass and pine needles surrounding her bathed the clearing just before the trees in a silver sheen. As Gorenne slowly opened her eyes, a spider’s web held taut between two fallen branches gently glistened in a shaft of the early morning sunlight waved eerily close to her clammy face. Startled by the sight, she quickly scrambled backward and winced. Her body was sore. She hadn’t rested, nor eaten, and the night was disturbed by the taste of blood drowning her. Touching her mouth, she winced again. The wax man had split her top lip with her own sword. Allowing your opponent to take your weapon was a rookie mistake, and one she hadn’t made in years. How she could be so silly was nothing she could fathom. Gorenne whipped her head about to find her sword, her gloved hands and plated knees sifted through the damp pine needles in hopes that it may have been covered

“Captain! Captain, where are you?” Gorenne was in a panic, the cool air washing over her as she raced. Why did nobody believe her? What reason do they have not to retain proper form and coordination? They came here to do battle, not to enjoy themselves! As she ran, the occasional waft of heat burdened with the scent of sweat, smoke and alcohol would touch her. On she ran, the sound of her armour rattling with every step and swing of her arms. Once upon a time, the armour would fatigue her just by walking, but that was a long time ago. Back when this set was made, a travelling smith had hammered the plates she hoarded from fallen soldiers to something that was more befitting to her figure, save for some space to allow for things like muscle development. Incidentally, his assessment for how she would grow as a soldier was flawless, but how he was able to reform steel without a fire perplexed her. There was even a time, not very long ago, when the heady aromas of mercenaries enjoying thei

In an open field whose vast green scapes gently rose and fell in sombre hills from edge to edge, a bright sunset far off in the west bathed the waves of grass in a deep orange glow. The field, which really looked like a meadow, swayed calmly in the cool, dying breeze passing through the ancient pine forest at the far west. At the eastern edge, a motley collection of patchwork tents stitched from fallen banners and hide littered what was a relatively small section of this field where a thousand mercenaries lay waiting. Or, they should be. This was the fourth sunset that was seen by the group in this field, yet the first should have been the last. As a result, the hard faces and tense shoulders scattered between the tents had relaxed, their heads never leaving the packed soil and matted grass until well after sunrise. Throughout the day, the clang of swords would echo down the thoroughfares, but this display of prowess was seldom and brief. For the most part, the men and women that compr

This story is treated more as a children’s tale in Neverin’s time, though it is commonly believed to be partially true. Indeed, nobody really knows when exactly the story began to spread as one may travel across the kingdoms and find a variation of it among the people, but it might be said the subject of this story is tenacious and gracious enough to have its influence spread between the coastlines. This is the lead-in to that story. Padol was crouched on the front porch of his uncle’s home planted in the middle of town playing with a wooden horse on wheels. His father had probably carved it from a piece of firewood. Granted, it wasn’t the prettiest or the most expensive gift the world has to offer, but given how his father works the farm from before the sun rises to well after it sets and still found the time to make this just for his birthday was more than reason for him to love the gift. He had asked his father for a horse, and he got one. Padol’s father told him not to question the