Whispers Of Peace And War

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The mighty Veynūr towered above King Hythrn, a warrior of such quality, few had stood before him and lived. The giant of a man waved his great hammer, Inranzér, proclaiming his victory, his hordes of fell, ugly followers roared in appreciation of his prowess, his strength and endurance as King Hythrn fought for breath, his ribs crushed from the last blow from that hammer.

The battle between them had raged for seven days and seven nights, neither giving quarter, neither surrendering to exhaustion, or hunger, or pain. The Patrons, themselves, had stopped their own petty squabbles to observe a duel that rocked the world.

Mountains had crumbled from the sounds of their blows. Forests had fallen, laying like splinters across the island of Iibar. Rivers had burst their banks, changed their courses to avoid the two great warriors. Their battle had scarred and twisted the island, many had died from the very sight of the warring individuals.

Upon this battle lay the fate of all of Iibar. Of all the peoples. Iibarish, Tandari, Gaavjolts. All would perish should Veynūr prove victorious. Only King Hythrn stood in his way. One man. One brave, foolish man that did not know the meaning of surrender. Laughed at the thought of defeat. Clutched death to his breast as he would embrace the closest of friends.

As Veynūr raised Inranzér for the finishing blow, Hythrn called upon the hearts of his people, begged for their power, for their strength of community, for their love of Iibar. With one, final, desperate attack, Hythrn thrust his sacred sword deep into the chest of the giant Veynūr, piercing his black heart and bringing the foul creature to ruin upon scorch-blasted heath.

But Veynūr did not die. With a roar of defiance, he brought Inranzér down upon upon Hythrn's sword, shattering it into a million, million golden splinters that glittered beneath fingers of sunlight, reaching down through gaps in the black clouds above.

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"That's not fair! That didn't happen!" Mythrd jumped up from the ground, waving his broken, wooden sword towards Gythryn, the guard, pinned with only one nail, wobbling against his hand. "If you wanted to win, you should have played Hythrn!"

"I wanted Veynūr to win." Laughing, Gythryn skipped to the side, dropping the log she had used as Veynūr's hammer, as Mythrd threw the remains of his toy sword towards her. "It's only a story, anyway. Anyone can win in a story."

Mythrd, furious, began to chase after Gythryn. Even while hitching her long skirts up to her waist, the girl could still outrun him. It was always the same with Gythryn. If everybody said something one way, she would do everything she could to say, or do, the exact opposite. It was as though she took delight in ruining everything.

After a few moments chasing her, Mythrd stopped, dipping down to grab a handful of grass and throwing it her way. She flitted behind a tree, allowing the sod to pass her by. After a second, she poked her head out, tilting it almost in parallel to the ground, her three braids dangling from her head, swaying.

"You spoil everything." Defeated, Mythrd dropped to the ground, picking at long strands of grass. After a few seconds, Gythryn joined him, hugging her knees to her chest as she sat.

"I don't spoil everything." Resting her chin on her knees, Gythryn bumped Mythrd with her shoulder. "Only most things."

Mythrd couldn't help but laugh, falling back to the ground and staring up into the sky. Gythryn had never changed. For the entirety of their sixteen years of life, Gythryn had proven herself his greatest friend and his greatest frustration, in equal measure. Always ready to burst any puffed up pride he may feel, always pushing him to do better.