Post by ursk on Aug 31, 2008 13:23:13 GMT -5
Man
I never thought this day would come...
It is the fifteenth era, the fourth age of the fifteenth era. Four thousand years into the fifteenth era.
This era.. this long ten thousand years... the Thristing Gods grow fierce.
Their mortal servants, the Zahrak.. never before had their forges rung so loud. Never before had so much fiery smoke strangle their bleeding sky. Never before did the Council of States agree on so much.
Never before did the King of Thirteen seem so optimistic.
Yes, the Dark King of Thirteen. The black tongue of the Thirsting Gods. Always macabre and pious to his dark masters. Suddenly, he is eager. And with his enthusiasm, come the mighty drums of doom resounding the halls of war. Heated forges sweat the bodies of beaten slaves and their searing hearts belch flame from the bull-headed spires. Man will be tested. His will, his courage and his power. The King of Thirteen leads this Great Undoing himself.
Will Man survive? We all make that judgement... alone.
Syrdak
It has been 154,000 cycles since man has risen. In the fields of Thayruen. The Zahrak tried time and time again. Each time, man's resolve had proven too strong for the Zahrak to break. But now...
They unite once more. And we cannot save them.
The Goblins, neglected within Eastwood for so long, have risen once more to power. The disparate tribes have united into one great force, called the Curagi League. Under the leadership of Chief Curagi, they swell in massive numbers. Their foul reproduction has become almost a part of the forest. Black fungi clutch to trees, draining their life until a new goblin forms from it.
We are nearly isolated from the pains of our allies, but we can do nothing.
All are alone, and lost in the dark. But to give up is to lose without a fight.
Orc
We have been lax.
Trolls. Those beasts of the steppes, beasts that know metal. They are rising. Their skin is scaled, like a kraken. Red of eye, and clothed in great steel plates. Monsters they are, but one should never take their simplicity for stupidity. They are cunning. And suddenly openly hostile.
The occasional raid or invasion may have been an outburst of violence, a racial desire to pillage. No, this is open war. They form armies, not plundering gangs. Have they seen the threat we pose? How very dangerous we are? They come to us in war, then they will know we are the bane of their way of life!
Zahrak
Our King calls for each one to play his part. So many times, has man been victorious against us. They are everything that should not be! They are merciful, pious to the Gods of light, and free. Everything that should never be, they are.
They exist to die! Our immortal King of Thirteen is with us and we are invincible! Their cities will crumble before our mighty battle drums. Our cavalry will grind them under their claws. Our magic and arrows will split the very sky like silk and have it rain down upon you.
They cannot win. None shall live again when the kin unite! The counts call for us, who are called by the Council, who answer to the King himself. When we march upon the plains of Thayruen, only death will sound in the sky.
Ogres
Da elfies dunno who dey's messin' wit. Fer a real long time naw, dey've been thumpin' each othah on dere 'eads. It been real easy, dey smash each othah on da 'ead, and we eats what's left. Naw what? Dey's comin' fer us!
Well, da bosses don' like dat, not one bit. Big Boss Grugruk says we's gonna break bones, rip guts, eat 'em up, build 'em up in a big ol' fire and cook 'em. Eat 'em, and sleep on what's left.
Da humies needs a hand from us, we's think. Da spiky folks from da real dark island be attacking dem. We's love to go dere and show dem spiky's what it means to mess wit t'ose who trade wit da ogres. But wit da elfies and dere sneaky gits everywhere's, we can't git outta da mountains here! Ok, a few of us can, but it won' be enough.
We'll show dese elfies what it means to mess wit da ogres!
Elves
They think of us as the remnants of a bygone era, those ogres. Those degenrate, uncivilised fools. We shall see, when we pluck the mountains from their grasp as easily as ripe fruit from a tree.
The Family Lords call for the families to stop killing each other, and kill a common threat to our society. Those bloody ogres have lived in those mountains since the fourth era, doing little else than hunt, eat and trade with travelling merchants.
In their mountains lie many dangers. Gnolls crawl out form their cloisters in the winter, gathering frozen carcasses for their simple society. Idiotic, simple dog men. Harpies are a greater threat though. Elf maidens lost in the mountains, warped by the thick clouds of magic that surround the highest mountains. More than this, we cannot say.
The ogres will die, regardless. When the Families unite, only dust remains...
Liche
The bones are cast, the blood boils, the flesh speaks.
Doom cries from the four corners of the world, and souls quiver with fear as they see it. The Bridge tells us what must be done, what is to happen, what the Judge tells. The Judge sees that many will go to Paradise, and some will enter Agony. He speaks to the Bridge, telling him that the Zahrak do too much, too soon.
The bones are cast, the blood boils, the flesh speaks.
Magic grows strong, in the Chavari Peaks. Ogres know not its potential. The Orc Bloodfathers grow in superstition, and man's wizards ponder at it. We know, however, that it means it is a time of war. The Dark God Chief, who's name I will not utter, means for this power to be his servant's strength. We must capture this magic.
The bones are cast, the blood boils, the flesh speaks.
We will work, our puppets guard our gates, but will it keep the wild men of the desert away? We shall see...
Dragon
The foretellers see no way out of this. For the Warrior Caste, this is good. For the rest of us, this is hell.
The dwarves, the slave drivers of the jungle, they come for more than just slaves. They come for death. Not plunder or captives. They come with a warcry in their mouths, and fire in their hearts.
Truly, they are not dwarves. They are no shorter than a man. This island, this nation. It is populated by giants. Ourselves, kraken, massive apes, and other immense monsters that would indeed make them seem dwarves.
The Royal Caste urges everyone to play their part, and pray we are the better actors.
The Noble Caste calls upon their followers to shield them.
The Warrior Caste urges all dragons, everywhere, to swallow their substantial pride and fight for the Queendom.
The Worker Caste is alone, waiting for the others to take them.
In the end, the men of the jungle will kill many. But likewise, all know the legends of dragons burning a hundred villages in a day...
Zirsmun
The thieves of thought! The puppeteers of flesh! Hiding in the ash wastes, playing without guess.
Robed in red! Skin as coal! Who's to say they are not child trolls?
Blood's their toy! Life's their stage! No one knows their honest age.
Against the spirits. Against our life. For this now, we begin a strife.
Kill them all! Cut them dry! Let their cries pierce the sky!
Kill their puppets, cast them down. Then we'll see who wears the Zirthoj Crown!
Undead and Liche, both bleed the same. Now, we hunt the greatest game!
Send your soldiers, your undead slaves. You will all be speared upon our glaives.
The dice are cast, and the war is waged. Until we win, the battle will rage!
Goblin
The swamp is no place for Goblins. The Deysia Swamp is not where the Goblins belong. We made the eastern forests our home for so long, but then the big lizard folk come in and rip us out. We cannot feed on men anymore. The elves to the south, they smell odd. The Zirsmun eat us. We must feed on men.
Fish and fungus are not for us to eat. The strongest elves leave their lands in giant boats, venturing north along the coast.
The Ocean does not harm them. We cannot. They are beyond our reach.
All that is left is the Lizard folk in the forest, where we should be. We must be there. We must feed on them, strip their scales, rip their joints, peel their skin, part their flesh. They must taste filth before we end their pain.
They will crawl on all fours before they die.
Dwarf
The greatest game will soon be played. The behemoths of the rainforest, the leviathans of the jungle... they are quiet.
There can be no better time to strike the dread serpents. The dragons, living on their great steppes, in their rich silk robes and jade castles. For too long they have lived such a life, so high and mighty whilst we wither and struggle in the vale. Pain is part of our life, and taboo to they.
Tell us, who is the more evil? Those who neglect those who suffer, or those who seek to purge them?
It is so for we. Living for aeons, dying. Only that they did not even acknowledge us. They did not come to us in war, or peace, or trade! They abandoned us to the jungles.
In our coming vengeful fury, not one dragon will be rich. There will be trading of positions, a swap of lives.
There shall be retibution for their neglect!
I never thought this day would come...
It is the fifteenth era, the fourth age of the fifteenth era. Four thousand years into the fifteenth era.
This era.. this long ten thousand years... the Thristing Gods grow fierce.
Their mortal servants, the Zahrak.. never before had their forges rung so loud. Never before had so much fiery smoke strangle their bleeding sky. Never before did the Council of States agree on so much.
Never before did the King of Thirteen seem so optimistic.
Yes, the Dark King of Thirteen. The black tongue of the Thirsting Gods. Always macabre and pious to his dark masters. Suddenly, he is eager. And with his enthusiasm, come the mighty drums of doom resounding the halls of war. Heated forges sweat the bodies of beaten slaves and their searing hearts belch flame from the bull-headed spires. Man will be tested. His will, his courage and his power. The King of Thirteen leads this Great Undoing himself.
Will Man survive? We all make that judgement... alone.
Syrdak
It has been 154,000 cycles since man has risen. In the fields of Thayruen. The Zahrak tried time and time again. Each time, man's resolve had proven too strong for the Zahrak to break. But now...
They unite once more. And we cannot save them.
The Goblins, neglected within Eastwood for so long, have risen once more to power. The disparate tribes have united into one great force, called the Curagi League. Under the leadership of Chief Curagi, they swell in massive numbers. Their foul reproduction has become almost a part of the forest. Black fungi clutch to trees, draining their life until a new goblin forms from it.
We are nearly isolated from the pains of our allies, but we can do nothing.
All are alone, and lost in the dark. But to give up is to lose without a fight.
Orc
We have been lax.
Trolls. Those beasts of the steppes, beasts that know metal. They are rising. Their skin is scaled, like a kraken. Red of eye, and clothed in great steel plates. Monsters they are, but one should never take their simplicity for stupidity. They are cunning. And suddenly openly hostile.
The occasional raid or invasion may have been an outburst of violence, a racial desire to pillage. No, this is open war. They form armies, not plundering gangs. Have they seen the threat we pose? How very dangerous we are? They come to us in war, then they will know we are the bane of their way of life!
Zahrak
Our King calls for each one to play his part. So many times, has man been victorious against us. They are everything that should not be! They are merciful, pious to the Gods of light, and free. Everything that should never be, they are.
They exist to die! Our immortal King of Thirteen is with us and we are invincible! Their cities will crumble before our mighty battle drums. Our cavalry will grind them under their claws. Our magic and arrows will split the very sky like silk and have it rain down upon you.
They cannot win. None shall live again when the kin unite! The counts call for us, who are called by the Council, who answer to the King himself. When we march upon the plains of Thayruen, only death will sound in the sky.
Ogres
Da elfies dunno who dey's messin' wit. Fer a real long time naw, dey've been thumpin' each othah on dere 'eads. It been real easy, dey smash each othah on da 'ead, and we eats what's left. Naw what? Dey's comin' fer us!
Well, da bosses don' like dat, not one bit. Big Boss Grugruk says we's gonna break bones, rip guts, eat 'em up, build 'em up in a big ol' fire and cook 'em. Eat 'em, and sleep on what's left.
Da humies needs a hand from us, we's think. Da spiky folks from da real dark island be attacking dem. We's love to go dere and show dem spiky's what it means to mess wit t'ose who trade wit da ogres. But wit da elfies and dere sneaky gits everywhere's, we can't git outta da mountains here! Ok, a few of us can, but it won' be enough.
We'll show dese elfies what it means to mess wit da ogres!
Elves
They think of us as the remnants of a bygone era, those ogres. Those degenrate, uncivilised fools. We shall see, when we pluck the mountains from their grasp as easily as ripe fruit from a tree.
The Family Lords call for the families to stop killing each other, and kill a common threat to our society. Those bloody ogres have lived in those mountains since the fourth era, doing little else than hunt, eat and trade with travelling merchants.
In their mountains lie many dangers. Gnolls crawl out form their cloisters in the winter, gathering frozen carcasses for their simple society. Idiotic, simple dog men. Harpies are a greater threat though. Elf maidens lost in the mountains, warped by the thick clouds of magic that surround the highest mountains. More than this, we cannot say.
The ogres will die, regardless. When the Families unite, only dust remains...
Liche
The bones are cast, the blood boils, the flesh speaks.
Doom cries from the four corners of the world, and souls quiver with fear as they see it. The Bridge tells us what must be done, what is to happen, what the Judge tells. The Judge sees that many will go to Paradise, and some will enter Agony. He speaks to the Bridge, telling him that the Zahrak do too much, too soon.
The bones are cast, the blood boils, the flesh speaks.
Magic grows strong, in the Chavari Peaks. Ogres know not its potential. The Orc Bloodfathers grow in superstition, and man's wizards ponder at it. We know, however, that it means it is a time of war. The Dark God Chief, who's name I will not utter, means for this power to be his servant's strength. We must capture this magic.
The bones are cast, the blood boils, the flesh speaks.
We will work, our puppets guard our gates, but will it keep the wild men of the desert away? We shall see...
Dragon
The foretellers see no way out of this. For the Warrior Caste, this is good. For the rest of us, this is hell.
The dwarves, the slave drivers of the jungle, they come for more than just slaves. They come for death. Not plunder or captives. They come with a warcry in their mouths, and fire in their hearts.
Truly, they are not dwarves. They are no shorter than a man. This island, this nation. It is populated by giants. Ourselves, kraken, massive apes, and other immense monsters that would indeed make them seem dwarves.
The Royal Caste urges everyone to play their part, and pray we are the better actors.
The Noble Caste calls upon their followers to shield them.
The Warrior Caste urges all dragons, everywhere, to swallow their substantial pride and fight for the Queendom.
The Worker Caste is alone, waiting for the others to take them.
In the end, the men of the jungle will kill many. But likewise, all know the legends of dragons burning a hundred villages in a day...
Zirsmun
The thieves of thought! The puppeteers of flesh! Hiding in the ash wastes, playing without guess.
Robed in red! Skin as coal! Who's to say they are not child trolls?
Blood's their toy! Life's their stage! No one knows their honest age.
Against the spirits. Against our life. For this now, we begin a strife.
Kill them all! Cut them dry! Let their cries pierce the sky!
Kill their puppets, cast them down. Then we'll see who wears the Zirthoj Crown!
Undead and Liche, both bleed the same. Now, we hunt the greatest game!
Send your soldiers, your undead slaves. You will all be speared upon our glaives.
The dice are cast, and the war is waged. Until we win, the battle will rage!
Goblin
The swamp is no place for Goblins. The Deysia Swamp is not where the Goblins belong. We made the eastern forests our home for so long, but then the big lizard folk come in and rip us out. We cannot feed on men anymore. The elves to the south, they smell odd. The Zirsmun eat us. We must feed on men.
Fish and fungus are not for us to eat. The strongest elves leave their lands in giant boats, venturing north along the coast.
The Ocean does not harm them. We cannot. They are beyond our reach.
All that is left is the Lizard folk in the forest, where we should be. We must be there. We must feed on them, strip their scales, rip their joints, peel their skin, part their flesh. They must taste filth before we end their pain.
They will crawl on all fours before they die.
Dwarf
The greatest game will soon be played. The behemoths of the rainforest, the leviathans of the jungle... they are quiet.
There can be no better time to strike the dread serpents. The dragons, living on their great steppes, in their rich silk robes and jade castles. For too long they have lived such a life, so high and mighty whilst we wither and struggle in the vale. Pain is part of our life, and taboo to they.
Tell us, who is the more evil? Those who neglect those who suffer, or those who seek to purge them?
It is so for we. Living for aeons, dying. Only that they did not even acknowledge us. They did not come to us in war, or peace, or trade! They abandoned us to the jungles.
In our coming vengeful fury, not one dragon will be rich. There will be trading of positions, a swap of lives.
There shall be retibution for their neglect!
