The dragon’s claw descended upon the valley, and there were raptors in our gates.
None from Cul Hont
would live to see the next night.
We retreated to the lip edge of the valley,
away from the chasing raptors.
We cry at the sacking of the city, our cry is harsh. The charging carriage of Rosul ruined the land, the high waters, our high wails.
In Cul Hont, deep under the valley,
our enemy drowned.
We pushed our blades into our bellies
They had already poisoned the root with their touch, and it was spent before we could muster.
The drowned city was silent now
The floating corpses of raptors clogging the tunnels. Lost to the valley wind we are, our way to Lunatimic.
Rejoice all ye who live yet in the grace of the Guardians, for we, our lives, our glory, our very souls are saved. For I come with good news and glad tidings, and beseech all ye who live in light or sin to hear: we are saved.
This unending war is surely come to end. For the most holy among us was granted a second gift from our protector Guardians. I saw her, the General, Claudia Yulia Caesar, perish before me. But fret not, for our cause is righteous, so say the Guardians! For she lives again!
There she shone with the clarity of a lifetime of sunrises, burning all unclean before her, and bringing the holy flock to their knees. The battle halted, and we all witnessed her grace, the grace of the Guardians, bestow upon us our new lives. Blessed be Caesar. Blessed be the Guardians.
Where does the heart beat, if it is not inside the earth? I can tell you this, fleshen: Gaia drums slow, and so too do the greater turnings. We heed her lesson, unlike all else. For we are the only ones who can hear and speak her language – a slow hum tinged in fire and love.
Find within yourself the pride of your people; is it even present? Do you wish for more than a history of scraping through sun-baked dirt?
For we do not speak, we sing. Music is the language of the earth, not your words. Words are quick and cheap. To even find myself using them to speak to you fills me with a rage unsubsiding. If only you were capable of understanding the Trollsong. But alas, the kin of the plains, just as the kin of the cavern, are as quick to forget as they are to weave lies with their tongues: unabashedly so.
The world was no more than rivers of lava and lakes of plagued, brackish water. The tides churned together, and the sky roiled and rained fire and lightning upon us. The giants would trample down the mountainside, their terrible arms raining arrows the size of tree trunks upon stone huts.
We were so hungry back then – nothing to eat but our fallen enemy, or ourselves. For every twenty of us, we would fell one of them, the great monsters falling to knee, sputtering blood from hundreds of gashes and wounds, and all would rejoice in the feast that would follow.
We were born in the Age of Dark. To claim you understand anything of horror is laughable. This war may be horrible, yes, but our history is as the ocean – yours the puddle. We were the first amongst us, we were the first to pledge ourselves at the founding. We were the first, and there shall be no other.