You have joined Tilor O Irath'Miesdys. This order was once renowned by their heroic actions and wars against the creatures of Rathias. The battles against the Dymórleshras being the most famous of them all, where the soldier lost their lives to protect Irath's Agia. The Founder, Leiran dying while protecting a little girl, which led the Tilor to discover the weakness of the Dymórleshra is a story every child have heard.

Either you have been chosen by the Seniors to be a member of this glorious organisation, or you have volunteered to be part of it. It matter not, for you are finally here. As you stare around your new fellow comrades, some older than you, and some around the age of 17 summers, you discover there are only twenty of you.

"So you are our new fodder!" Shouts a tall, brutish man with more scar than hairs on his head. Whatever age he really was, the blackness around the eyes, and the age lines in his face made him look like a man in his late forties.
"F..fodder?" Manage one of your fellow recruits to stutter forth.
"Yes. Fodder. Until you have proven worthy of this glorious order, you are simply fodder for the creatures of Rathias. I can tell you so far most of you would make for fine toothpicks." Said the man, and every recruits looking nervously at each others.
"I get to supervise you on your journey to become warriors, not fodder. But until I deem you worthy, I shall call you fodders. Is that understood?" Shouted he once again, but when no one answered he then shouted "Is that understood?" once again.
"Yes, Sir!" Shouted the recruits back.

After a year of training the man finally look at you.
"Well, congratulation, you are no longer fodder. You are..."

(Click on a picture to continue the story)


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