The Ionic Wars
THE IONIC WARS
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Entry taken from Journal 6404, titled “The Ionic Wars: The Omari’s Last Stand” Author: Spiren
I look at the faces of each soldier who faces the great uncertainty that is the line between survival and death. The young, the old, and the seasoned. All men and women who were prepared to die for the cause that none of them believed it. To Nethys he stated that this was the folly of mortals. To be convinced by the unimaginative words of their leaders and to be bolstered into a conflict that none of them had an actual say in. Their blood meant nothing, their lives were a currency, and all they did was shred a hole into the fates of many without a second thought. I knew not the sentiment that Nethys described about these ordeals. He called it inspiring others but I could not remember the feeling, he called it propaganda but I knew not what the concept meant. I walk amongst their ranks sweeping past each person. All a uniform sense of militaristic perfection in each Marsilian soldier. Some faces were Sirian others were from Auro itself, the heart of the Marsil. They all wore various expressions. Mild boredom that tugged their eyes all over the battlefield that they stood upon in their carefully formulated ranks. To a creeping nervousness that made the hands of the younger soldiers shake with each step that those around them took. This battalion was waiting on the outskirts while the other met the Omari with a bewildered confusion. They knew in their hearts that to fight them in an open space on their land would be death but the fear of their own people overturned that. A fear of what would happen to them should they disregard the orders of their commanders. Nethys a god of neutrality in information deeply detested those who pursued the mundane nature of war. A waste of conversation is what he called it. These men were being ensnared by fate but they still believed that they held that noose wrapped tightly around their fists, arming themselves with it. The fight unfolds rather quickly the Omari with their talents for camouflage and magic appear in random sections of the tall grass. Arrows, swords, and the thrum of battle magic consumes the land as the Omari fall into what I have heard called “the song of war”. They stand together and they step together as a people facing extinction. The Marsilians knew not what was coming to them and as such they fell. The largest section of their forces was eradicated in fifteen elongated minutes of precise slaughter. I watch his face in particular a younger soldier the fear igniting a visceral shaking in his body. When the Omari are upon him he freezes and he is incinerated alive in his armor as payment. The stink of his boiling flesh oozing out onto the battlefield makes me ponder one thing in particular. Marsil were invaders hoping to secure a shred of magic, a sliver of the Omari’s natural resources upon the soil of Nalendi. But over time this small goal of acquiring a kind of cure to the plight of their people had warped into the grey gelatinous blob that is a war of attrition. It no longer mattered to the people what the purpose of their war was so long as they were able to avenge their brothers and sisters. I have seen so much war but this one is peculiar to me. There used to be a side that most would call morally correct. That of the Omari a people who were being consumed by the Marsillians who were reaching out their bloodied desperate hands for the chance of ridding themselves of being Almagical through the power of the shrines. With how much death has sloshed itself onto the people on both sides of the war I truly wonder what mortals will claim is right and what they will view as a wrong. Innocence is a subjective shell that people wrap themselves in for any sort of reason. I wonder how it shall play out in the years to come as the wounds of this war are still scabbing over. In these events I think of Pharasma’s chosen vessel. Solikha. The Maiden of Death. In the crows that weave their way across the plains, I see her. I think that she would have hated this event. I do not understand why but I can imagine her closing the eyes of the dead and rubbing the shoulders of those who are yet to pass. She is a guide and a reaper. The calm serenity of suffering coming to an end and the specter of all the time that has been stolen from you. The Omari stand around one another heads pressed against one another crying in the solidarity that a victory has been won here. I can not feel their joy nor the silent sorrow of the dead as their souls drift to their resting places beyond being ushered into their rightful spots by Pharasma. There is an order to death as there is chaos to life. They sing, they sob, and they experience the sadistic euphoria of winning. I watch them patiently feeling the smoke seep into my skin and into my coat. The juxtaposition of the mortal experience lying directly at my feet. What is survival? What is victory? Who can be right and who can be wrong? And who determines either of those concepts? I ponder these mortals and their fate as I stare at the Omari wearing the colors of the earth painted onto their skin feeling the hum of their magic. They walk around me peering through me as all mortals do when I am hiding. I think of a concept that Nethys asked me about. Loneliness. For once I can apply it and so I believe that I shall. For the Marsilians who are dead on soil that isn’t theirs fighting for a war that they have no heart for. This war was waged at first for land and then for shrines only finalizing itself upon the nature of slaughtering one's enemies. They die alone. How empty and alone these people must feel. That is what Nethys would say in regards to all parties but mostly for the Omari who refuse to look at the young faces amongst the ranks of their oppressors. In groups, they make a steady path for the last shrine, that of Zeterin. They hope to shove off the Marsilians once and for all and as they sing to one another I can hear a resounding notion of hope flow through their people as a steady river. Anima. The will of mortality. Burning as brightly as the very stars that surround the Astralith. Though they are hollow they are not experiencing the literal loneliness rather just the internal. I think that they would find comfort in one another eventually. Whatever that may mean to them. What will the Marsilian’s do now that their main attempt at squashing the resistance of the Omari has failed? I will continue to observe. A part of me thinks one single notion. At least they are at rest, the ignorant and the believers. As I stand I feel her presence upon the field. A crow lands upon my hand gazing up at me with its head tilted. Do you still think of me, Maiden of the Long Slumber? I know not your reason for associating with me but I think now I am beginning to understand what Nethys’s calls your burden. You used to tell me once, “If its meant to be then it shall be.” When you stand over the bodies of those desperate to fight you off in spirit. Would you answer my questions? To you Solikha I am writing an inquiry. What is the true measure of a life well lived and who deserves to die? Perhaps years from now when you awaken you will seek me out as you often do and then you shall present me with your experiences so that I may record them. I can conclude that this war presents the paradigm of mortality. To live in a chaotic blaze burning entirely for what you believe in and to die with your candle abruptly snuffed out. Nethys once said, “ Mortals are the definition of brilliance. To shine in all your luster without a care for the forces that twist your life without your consent.” I stare at the faces on the field walking amongst the grasses as they swipe their gentle hands across me. A girl clad in Omari armor who has been left behind presumed dead stands on her feet, drenched in blood fighting the weary nature of the cold shock of near death. She takes a step and stumbles. I watch her fight silently. If its meant to be then it shall be.
I look at the faces of each soldier who faces the great uncertainty that is the line between survival and death. The young, the old, and the seasoned. All men and women who were prepared to die for the cause that none of them believed it. To Nethys he stated that this was the folly of mortals. To be convinced by the unimaginative words of their leaders and to be bolstered into a conflict that none of them had an actual say in. Their blood meant nothing, their lives were a currency, and all they did was shred a hole into the fates of many without a second thought. I knew not the sentiment that Nethys described about these ordeals. He called it inspiring others but I could not remember the feeling, he called it propaganda but I knew not what the concept meant. I walk amongst their ranks sweeping past each person. All a uniform sense of militaristic perfection in each Marsilian soldier. Some faces were Sirian others were from Auro itself, the heart of the Marsil. They all wore various expressions. Mild boredom that tugged their eyes all over the battlefield that they stood upon in their carefully formulated ranks. To a creeping nervousness that made the hands of the younger soldiers shake with each step that those around them took. This battalion was waiting on the outskirts while the other met the Omari with a bewildered confusion. They knew in their hearts that to fight them in an open space on their land would be death but the fear of their own people overturned that. A fear of what would happen to them should they disregard the orders of their commanders. Nethys a god of neutrality in information deeply detested those who pursued the mundane nature of war. A waste of conversation is what he called it. These men were being ensnared by fate but they still believed that they held that noose wrapped tightly around their fists, arming themselves with it. The fight unfolds rather quickly the Omari with their talents for camouflage and magic appear in random sections of the tall grass. Arrows, swords, and the thrum of battle magic consumes the land as the Omari fall into what I have heard called “the song of war”. They stand together and they step together as a people facing extinction. The Marsilians knew not what was coming to them and as such they fell. The largest section of their forces was eradicated in fifteen elongated minutes of precise slaughter. I watch his face in particular a younger soldier the fear igniting a visceral shaking in his body. When the Omari are upon him he freezes and he is incinerated alive in his armor as payment. The stink of his boiling flesh oozing out onto the battlefield makes me ponder one thing in particular. Marsil were invaders hoping to secure a shred of magic, a sliver of the Omari’s natural resources upon the soil of Nalendi. But over time this small goal of acquiring a kind of cure to the plight of their people had warped into the grey gelatinous blob that is a war of attrition. It no longer mattered to the people what the purpose of their war was so long as they were able to avenge their brothers and sisters. I have seen so much war but this one is peculiar to me. There used to be a side that most would call morally correct. That of the Omari a people who were being consumed by the Marsillians who were reaching out their bloodied desperate hands for the chance of ridding themselves of being Almagical through the power of the shrines. With how much death has sloshed itself onto the people on both sides of the war I truly wonder what mortals will claim is right and what they will view as a wrong. Innocence is a subjective shell that people wrap themselves in for any sort of reason. I wonder how it shall play out in the years to come as the wounds of this war are still scabbing over. In these events I think of Pharasma’s chosen vessel. Solikha. The Maiden of Death. In the crows that weave their way across the plains, I see her. I think that she would have hated this event. I do not understand why but I can imagine her closing the eyes of the dead and rubbing the shoulders of those who are yet to pass. She is a guide and a reaper. The calm serenity of suffering coming to an end and the specter of all the time that has been stolen from you. The Omari stand around one another heads pressed against one another crying in the solidarity that a victory has been won here. I can not feel their joy nor the silent sorrow of the dead as their souls drift to their resting places beyond being ushered into their rightful spots by Pharasma. There is an order to death as there is chaos to life. They sing, they sob, and they experience the sadistic euphoria of winning. I watch them patiently feeling the smoke seep into my skin and into my coat. The juxtaposition of the mortal experience lying directly at my feet. What is survival? What is victory? Who can be right and who can be wrong? And who determines either of those concepts? I ponder these mortals and their fate as I stare at the Omari wearing the colors of the earth painted onto their skin feeling the hum of their magic. They walk around me peering through me as all mortals do when I am hiding. I think of a concept that Nethys asked me about. Loneliness. For once I can apply it and so I believe that I shall. For the Marsilians who are dead on soil that isn’t theirs fighting for a war that they have no heart for. This war was waged at first for land and then for shrines only finalizing itself upon the nature of slaughtering one's enemies. They die alone. How empty and alone these people must feel. That is what Nethys would say in regards to all parties but mostly for the Omari who refuse to look at the young faces amongst the ranks of their oppressors. In groups, they make a steady path for the last shrine, that of Zeterin. They hope to shove off the Marsilians once and for all and as they sing to one another I can hear a resounding notion of hope flow through their people as a steady river. Anima. The will of mortality. Burning as brightly as the very stars that surround the Astralith. Though they are hollow they are not experiencing the literal loneliness rather just the internal. I think that they would find comfort in one another eventually. Whatever that may mean to them. What will the Marsilian’s do now that their main attempt at squashing the resistance of the Omari has failed? I will continue to observe. A part of me thinks one single notion. At least they are at rest, the ignorant and the believers. As I stand I feel her presence upon the field. A crow lands upon my hand gazing up at me with its head tilted. Do you still think of me, Maiden of the Long Slumber? I know not your reason for associating with me but I think now I am beginning to understand what Nethys’s calls your burden. You used to tell me once, “If its meant to be then it shall be.” When you stand over the bodies of those desperate to fight you off in spirit. Would you answer my questions? To you Solikha I am writing an inquiry. What is the true measure of a life well lived and who deserves to die? Perhaps years from now when you awaken you will seek me out as you often do and then you shall present me with your experiences so that I may record them. I can conclude that this war presents the paradigm of mortality. To live in a chaotic blaze burning entirely for what you believe in and to die with your candle abruptly snuffed out. Nethys once said, “ Mortals are the definition of brilliance. To shine in all your luster without a care for the forces that twist your life without your consent.” I stare at the faces on the field walking amongst the grasses as they swipe their gentle hands across me. A girl clad in Omari armor who has been left behind presumed dead stands on her feet, drenched in blood fighting the weary nature of the cold shock of near death. She takes a step and stumbles. I watch her fight silently. If its meant to be then it shall be.
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