Prologue

A distant land where nothing was thought to stir - until now.

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Vilhelm Benkern
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Prologue

Post by Vilhelm Benkern »

Prologue – The Conversion of Sainted Drun
MANUSCRIPT DATED c.5600 ASC

Sit down, Drun. I want to tell you some things. They are very important, and you must take care to listen to every word that I say. I am not going to use any unnecessary words. Each word that I am going to say to you, and, in their saying, give to you, was said to me. They were said to me by my mother, and unto her they were said by a wise woman of Uk-ral in the north east. This is the knowledge of our land. I cannot carry it with me much longer, because I am dying. I have carried it these past forty-five years in the hope that I would pass this information on to my son or daughter when they came of age, but of course that isn't possible now. So, Drun, you are going to receive this knowledge. It is a great burden. It is a great responsibility. It is all we know. It is all we have.

This land on which you and I subsist is a shadow. It is not a dream, it is real; but it is a real shadow of its former self. If there is one thing you must remember, it is that men of the past made promises they could not keep, and we were the security. We were the goods on which their word hinged. Us, our forefathers, and many generations after us – we were the sum given to hold in case of default. And those men defaulted, the world came to the brink of destruction, and we were left behind.

This land was the seat of greatness. The power that was exercised from this land made uncountable islands sink and rise, made many die and many live, brought the sweetest flowers to bloom and desolated crops by the thousands of acres. That power was not used for noble purposes, but little power is. It was used by some for their own benefit, or what they perceived to be their own benefit. Of course, in the end, it brought about their destruction. But then again, consider the life of the hoe. When the metal is freshly forged and the tool bound together, it is in its truest and most effective state. Over time, the edges are blunted, the metal may rust, the wood may rot, the shaft may break. This will happen whether the hoe is used or not. This will happen whether the hoe is used to till the land or crack open skulls. The tool is not important; the hands that hold it are important.

This land was beautiful and plentiful. What now we are forced to eat would then have been cast aside, not fit even for the hounds of the master. What we labour to produce would have been created with no effort, and no consequence. Their joys were greater and easily attained. Many were the rich. The water flowed clear, the ground was fertile, the winds brought no pain and holy fires burned eternally on mountains made by men.

This land was the site of horrors, however. Today we strive to live, and conflicts are commonplace because we lack what we need to survive. Then, there was enough. There was enough for all, to be fed and clothed and under roof. There was enough, but those with power kept what they could. They were giants, of a sort – men monstrously stronger than their fellows.

This land was theirs. Now it is ours.

The blight raged for centuries, for the longest time. Innumerable people died, many more blinded, sickened, reduced to beasts. Such a tiny number were preserved that many thought they were the only to remain, alive and sane. But those who could came together and knew they had to survive and to carry on. We are the children of survivors, Drun. We are the answer and the end point and the product and the result. We must ask, continue, create and progress.

This land can be fruitful again. This land can be great again. That is the knowledge that has been passed down. I pass the torch to you, to carry in your heart, to be a light wherever you go. You are young and the path laid out before you, though unknown, is long and hard.

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