Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in days old
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
-- An old man stood around a bonfire, a dull-head among windy places that long ago had weathered into dust. Behind him was an unrecognizable city fallen to ruin. Dilapidated columns dotted the barren landscape across a large plain split by a wide expanse of dirt road whose worn rivets told of a prosperous past when egress across its smooth surface carried goods to and fro all the way to the Eastern Sea and the jagged peaks to the south and northwest. The old man's fire was feeble, but he cut a tall shadow against the sinking sun, his sinewy muscle once like iron had wasted down to bone but his stature still held a strength that age could not undue. Across his face fell white-silver hair, and the grayed, white pelt across his shoulders of an old predator he pulled tighter against the high wind that roiled in with the onset of evening. The fire was stoked and held for the time being, and so the man eased himself down to his bedroll for an evening meal he had prepared in an iron pot over the fire. The aches in his body always brought recollections of his earlier days, and as the old man settled in for the night, it was the first time his gray eyes looked to the scabbarded longsword near his pack by the edge of the fire. It was maybe 5ft in length, stood up point down from the ground it was wreathed in a dark scabbard of brown leather, its worn wrapped handle was made for a two-handed grip whose grooves shown with extensive wear. Whatever history lay with that blade kindled a light within the old man's eyes, and as the setting sun at last dipped beneath the horizon, those weary eyes at last sunk into the dream of days gone by.
--------------------Sometime in the Distant Past--------------------
Grehym waited nearby with the others, idly he cleaned the blade of his sword while they all waited for more adventurers and warriors to answer the call to arms. He wagered that the gathered here were those who had mostly been closer to the Great Road on their way to the city, but he wondered if there was enough time to wait for more. It had been an exceptional number of years since there was a threat that could gather so many of them together like this, and yet, a group this exceptional meant an equal threat, perhaps to Bakara herself.
Azlan shown pale and gleaming in his hand; the beautiful, honeyed orb capping its hilt hummed with an energy he hadn't felt before, and he could swear a voice whispered in his ear of imminent danger. What it meant he was unsure of, but since coming here he was overcome with an unsettling feeling that yesterday morning was the last time he would see Lyonbeth whole. That feeling was still there, yet he held on to a hope beyond hope that his friends would arrive in time to take up the fight with him.
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Time, Time, Time
See what's become of me.
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We are not now that strength which in days old
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
-- An old man stood around a bonfire, a dull-head among windy places that long ago had weathered into dust. Behind him was an unrecognizable city fallen to ruin. Dilapidated columns dotted the barren landscape across a large plain split by a wide expanse of dirt road whose worn rivets told of a prosperous past when egress across its smooth surface carried goods to and fro all the way to the Eastern Sea and the jagged peaks to the south and northwest. The old man's fire was feeble, but he cut a tall shadow against the sinking sun, his sinewy muscle once like iron had wasted down to bone but his stature still held a strength that age could not undue. Across his face fell white-silver hair, and the grayed, white pelt across his shoulders of an old predator he pulled tighter against the high wind that roiled in with the onset of evening. The fire was stoked and held for the time being, and so the man eased himself down to his bedroll for an evening meal he had prepared in an iron pot over the fire. The aches in his body always brought recollections of his earlier days, and as the old man settled in for the night, it was the first time his gray eyes looked to the scabbarded longsword near his pack by the edge of the fire. It was maybe 5ft in length, stood up point down from the ground it was wreathed in a dark scabbard of brown leather, its worn wrapped handle was made for a two-handed grip whose grooves shown with extensive wear. Whatever history lay with that blade kindled a light within the old man's eyes, and as the setting sun at last dipped beneath the horizon, those weary eyes at last sunk into the dream of days gone by.
See what's become of me.
Grehym waited nearby with the others, idly he cleaned the blade of his sword while they all waited for more adventurers and warriors to answer the call to arms. He wagered that the gathered here were those who had mostly been closer to the Great Road on their way to the city, but he wondered if there was enough time to wait for more. It had been an exceptional number of years since there was a threat that could gather so many of them together like this, and yet, a group this exceptional meant an equal threat, perhaps to Bakara herself.
Azlan shown pale and gleaming in his hand; the beautiful, honeyed orb capping its hilt hummed with an energy he hadn't felt before, and he could swear a voice whispered in his ear of imminent danger. What it meant he was unsure of, but since coming here he was overcome with an unsettling feeling that yesterday morning was the last time he would see Lyonbeth whole. That feeling was still there, yet he held on to a hope beyond hope that his friends would arrive in time to take up the fight with him.
See what's become of me.