Mordai
I have lived far too long and now in the twilight of my life, with my death at hand, it is finally time to tell my tale. I entrust my story to you, my disciples. Know that I do not blame you for killing me and that from the great beyond I shall watch upon your great deeds with pride. You are my greatest legacy and final gift to the mortal realms, may you and yours always find the strength to defend this world, from those who would seek to harm it.
This is my first and final attempt to tell my story. It should be noted that this book is not written in some grand ambition that you may learn from my mistakes or as some kind of chronicle of my deeds over the years but rather as a way of telling my story in some vain hope that by allowing you to understand who I was, how I lived and what I did, some part of me may still live in the memory of this world, not to be swept away by the tides of time as so many people, places and things have in my years.
Mordai
The Beginning I was born in the Winter Of The Year 1043 Of The Yuaztitian Empire in the small village of Freybarrow, those who were alive then, said it was the coldest living winter in their memory. The snow piled so high, that those who lived in the low valleys found themselves trapped unable to leave their homes and had to be dug out at great effort by members of the village. Many would have starved had it not been for the intervention and altruism of our then lord Drakar Goldswell who opened his hearth and home to those who in need and dispatched stocks of food and supplies to us.
The memory of my parents are short and faded, for I knew them for only seven summers before their passing. Though I did not know it then, those seven summers would be my happiest and the memory of that time would sustain me all my life as milk nourishes a child.
My father Joron Theong was the village elder, a title of esteem and that made him the de facto lawspeaker of our little settlement. Those who knew of him said that he was a fair, brave and just leader of men, but if I were to be honest, I knew nothing of that part of his life. To me he was and would always be the man who carried me on his back to the wisewoman when I was sick, the man who told me stories before I went to bed and the man who gave his life so that I would live.
My mother was a kind and beautiful woman, charming and quick of wit but always slow to anger. Though many regarded her as merely the wife of the village elder, she was in truth so much more. Unlike many women of her time she was well read and suitably well informed, years after her passing I was told that her knowledge of history in particular, made her counsel invaluable even by those considered her betters. To me, she would always be my teacher, who taught my to read and write in Common and The Fiery Script (Now respectively known as Ancient Yua Period Common and Infernal), who told me of brave knights and their deeds and who forced me to learn to be introspective.
My time in the village was generally peaceful and unremarkable, we were a small settlement unaffected by the civil war raging all around us, but hope that we might escape the ravages of war and change would die on my seventh summer.
The Death Of Innocence Today The Yuaztitian Empire means nothing to anyone and even the most able scholars who have attempted to chronicle the history of our world would not recognize it, for this was a time before time, ancient not old. A world that was worlds apart from the one we live in today.
The Yuazitian Empire was founded by the gods, but not the twelve that exist today, nor the four before them, but instead by two hundred and fourty nine gods who walked amongst us, as real as any man woman or child. It was they who taught us to forge iron and steel, to write and read, to cast the first spells and to live in harmony under a code of laws, the first of which were written by them.
Together the gods ruled the empire as a democracy and for as long as this lasted, the utopia of the empire remained but around the year 1040, major differences between the gods had led to a split between them. In turn this led to a civil war which divided the people and empire by their allegiances. By the time of my birth, small skirmishes had already blown into full wars fought by gods and men carving a once united empire into small disparate territories ruled over by gods who were essentially warlords at this point.
By the Spring of 1048, the fighting had reached the outskirts of our village and our Lord called upon every able bodied man to resist the enemy. As village elder my father led the men of our village into battle and by all accounts fought bravely in defense of our homeland. But bravery alone does not win wars and eventually our lord was killed in battle in 1049, with no heir apparent, his territory was ceded to the enemy without contest. My father returned scarred but alive, with less than a fifth of those who had left with him. Many on our side had fallen and most of those who returned were maimed and scarred by battle.
Though my father had done his best to save his men, many in the village blamed him for the loss of their loved ones and the hardships that came thereafter. It did not help that he himself as an able fighter and former adventurer had returned more or less unharmed form the war. In a tale as old as time, festering grief turned to anger and anger into resentment. So when the new warlord came for my family we could find no safehaven.
They came one snowy day, mounted on their warhorses, I can still the sound of their hooves mixed with the cheers of the angry mob. The mob, led by a woman named Lilian Burgundy a former friend of our family had brought them to us. It was twilight and the fire from their torches shone brightly. As they approached in the distance, my father grabbed my mother and told her to flee with me while he bought us time "Run, hide, live. I'll hold them here" he said.
She grabbed me and we ran, through the snowy fields of our farm, but the sound of hooves of were getting closer and closer. Suddenly I heard a loud thud behind me. Turning I saw my mother bleeding on the ground, she opened her mouth to speak but just as she did, she was pierced by the sharp end of a blade. Caught and with no means of escape, I was brought back to the village, where I was tied to the bark of a tree and the bodies of my parents strung up above me, their blood dripping onto my face, mixing with the tears in my eyes.
Many years later I returned to the village and grafted a branch from the tree. Today that graft has grown into a tree, the one that sits outside the villa, inscribed upon it in an all but forgotten tougne the words (The Death Of Innocence)
This is my first and final attempt to tell my story. It should be noted that this book is not written in some grand ambition that you may learn from my mistakes or as some kind of chronicle of my deeds over the years but rather as a way of telling my story in some vain hope that by allowing you to understand who I was, how I lived and what I did, some part of me may still live in the memory of this world, not to be swept away by the tides of time as so many people, places and things have in my years.
The Beginning I was born in the Winter Of The Year 1043 Of The Yuaztitian Empire in the small village of Freybarrow, those who were alive then, said it was the coldest living winter in their memory. The snow piled so high, that those who lived in the low valleys found themselves trapped unable to leave their homes and had to be dug out at great effort by members of the village. Many would have starved had it not been for the intervention and altruism of our then lord Drakar Goldswell who opened his hearth and home to those who in need and dispatched stocks of food and supplies to us.
The memory of my parents are short and faded, for I knew them for only seven summers before their passing. Though I did not know it then, those seven summers would be my happiest and the memory of that time would sustain me all my life as milk nourishes a child.
My father Joron Theong was the village elder, a title of esteem and that made him the de facto lawspeaker of our little settlement. Those who knew of him said that he was a fair, brave and just leader of men, but if I were to be honest, I knew nothing of that part of his life. To me he was and would always be the man who carried me on his back to the wisewoman when I was sick, the man who told me stories before I went to bed and the man who gave his life so that I would live.
My mother was a kind and beautiful woman, charming and quick of wit but always slow to anger. Though many regarded her as merely the wife of the village elder, she was in truth so much more. Unlike many women of her time she was well read and suitably well informed, years after her passing I was told that her knowledge of history in particular, made her counsel invaluable even by those considered her betters. To me, she would always be my teacher, who taught my to read and write in Common and The Fiery Script (Now respectively known as Ancient Yua Period Common and Infernal), who told me of brave knights and their deeds and who forced me to learn to be introspective.
My time in the village was generally peaceful and unremarkable, we were a small settlement unaffected by the civil war raging all around us, but hope that we might escape the ravages of war and change would die on my seventh summer.
The Death Of Innocence Today The Yuaztitian Empire means nothing to anyone and even the most able scholars who have attempted to chronicle the history of our world would not recognize it, for this was a time before time, ancient not old. A world that was worlds apart from the one we live in today.
The Yuazitian Empire was founded by the gods, but not the twelve that exist today, nor the four before them, but instead by two hundred and fourty nine gods who walked amongst us, as real as any man woman or child. It was they who taught us to forge iron and steel, to write and read, to cast the first spells and to live in harmony under a code of laws, the first of which were written by them.
Together the gods ruled the empire as a democracy and for as long as this lasted, the utopia of the empire remained but around the year 1040, major differences between the gods had led to a split between them. In turn this led to a civil war which divided the people and empire by their allegiances. By the time of my birth, small skirmishes had already blown into full wars fought by gods and men carving a once united empire into small disparate territories ruled over by gods who were essentially warlords at this point.
By the Spring of 1048, the fighting had reached the outskirts of our village and our Lord called upon every able bodied man to resist the enemy. As village elder my father led the men of our village into battle and by all accounts fought bravely in defense of our homeland. But bravery alone does not win wars and eventually our lord was killed in battle in 1049, with no heir apparent, his territory was ceded to the enemy without contest. My father returned scarred but alive, with less than a fifth of those who had left with him. Many on our side had fallen and most of those who returned were maimed and scarred by battle.
Though my father had done his best to save his men, many in the village blamed him for the loss of their loved ones and the hardships that came thereafter. It did not help that he himself as an able fighter and former adventurer had returned more or less unharmed form the war. In a tale as old as time, festering grief turned to anger and anger into resentment. So when the new warlord came for my family we could find no safehaven.
They came one snowy day, mounted on their warhorses, I can still the sound of their hooves mixed with the cheers of the angry mob. The mob, led by a woman named Lilian Burgundy a former friend of our family had brought them to us. It was twilight and the fire from their torches shone brightly. As they approached in the distance, my father grabbed my mother and told her to flee with me while he bought us time "Run, hide, live. I'll hold them here" he said.
She grabbed me and we ran, through the snowy fields of our farm, but the sound of hooves of were getting closer and closer. Suddenly I heard a loud thud behind me. Turning I saw my mother bleeding on the ground, she opened her mouth to speak but just as she did, she was pierced by the sharp end of a blade. Caught and with no means of escape, I was brought back to the village, where I was tied to the bark of a tree and the bodies of my parents strung up above me, their blood dripping onto my face, mixing with the tears in my eyes.
Many years later I returned to the village and grafted a branch from the tree. Today that graft has grown into a tree, the one that sits outside the villa, inscribed upon it in an all but forgotten tougne the words (The Death Of Innocence)
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