Jenrak
27-05-2006, 03:11
Methronnmin was as far as the sands could crawl, as deep and cavernous as great Enkur gave to his servants. It was as vast, as ultimate and as uncontrolled as the children that dwelt upon it. It was here, on the light and soft edges of the Methronnmin borders of Arguzahk and Dadrudahn, rival empires, that the Methronn have become tired of their feuds against the ‘unworthy’. From the heart of Methronnmin, it’s bleak sun-scorched landscape apparent, to the city of Methronn, the large stone structures apparent in the dimming sunset. This was the heart of the blades of the Sadicistra, the Temsplace and the Virunnahk. This was their homeland, their place of worship to their gods, and this city, as large as it was, was the capital of an empire that was bored with skirmish feuds. It was against honour bound Methronn to fight the sands in such honourable and traditional means, yet they decided to reach farther, to gain more land in areas they knew were not blessed by the gods. From the center of the twisting, snake shaped Methronn, the large tower of Zarazego stood with impunity, its massive stone precipice stabbing defiantly into the soft red sky, the clouds dancing with the rays of blood yet spilt.
Zarazego was a giant sword of marble and limestone, painted a bleak red pigment in the center of the civilization, the stone statues around it brimming with strength and power. Their muscles immense, glimmering and unbelievably large, their physique unconquerable and their faces grim but determined. They encircled the thick base of the tall tower, as its shadow swept over the city of Methronn like a sundial, forming dark rays on the ground like an army of darkness throbbing up. From here, a large, but bony structure was seen from the base of the tower, smaller yet wider, enormous turrets and battlements protruding up as towers and crackling torches were lit aflame from the tops of their edges.
Fences of iron and stone fortresses were seen, enormous snake-like fortified were erected in ages long lost, great libraries of twisting and winding structures of impeccable design dotting the mountainous but dune-filled landscape. Small patches of green were apparent on the Viragius’s blue, shining riverbed, almost like a brilliant gem of vivacious vibrancy, like a large watery tunnel of sparkling diamonds. People walked around, their arms perched softly under the heavy weight of their baskets, pulling and ploughing as they chatted amongst each other, their hands broken and bleeding yet their sighs and hearts soft and wary. From this, one of the few peasants stood with his hands sore and his back aching - he had done his work, and Methronn was a vast city. From his sights, he could see the castle of Necromarnen in the distance, like a triumphant skeletal hand, almost as if the gods themselves had built it, from earthen stone and rock, a massive, untouchable and spiked fortress beyond all reason. It was an obsidian black tint, the size of the monument of the Methronnmin Empire dwarfing all other villages with impunity, with utmost efficiency and unbridled effect. From far-off at his small house on his small patch of farm, the aching farmer sat down upon a chair and looked at the wondrous object.
A large trumpet rang out throughout the kingdom, all at many special intervals, their blasts deafening and their echoes shattering the ears of the people around them, as they cupped their ears carefully but quickly with their red, raw hands, and their faces in thin grimace, waiting for the worst of the sound to end. It was not long before the shrieking pain resided, and the source of the sound was apparent. From a soft, hooked horn, carved from the Methronn Empirical symbol – a Ram – legions of large clad armoured soldiers walked along the pathway, their large feet beating the ground with utmost ferocity as they walked, their eyes and faces covered by a tall and immense armoured helmet, shining and gleaming with a large ‘T’ shaped symbol crudely splashed onto their armour, their shields as massive as their bodies, their armour thick and shining, the stains of mud deftly dried upon their sharp, iron surface. From them, tied onto their backs, large blades were held and tied on their backs, as they marched on, their voices quiet, their speech nonexistent.
They seemed to ignore the farmer, and his wife, whom had just walked out to see the cause of the noise, as they looked on in fear and awe at the marching group of massive warriors. “Temsplace.” The farmer whispered in delight and wonder, his voice raspy and his throat dry. His wife looked at him as the soldiers passed the couple without taking a single glance at them. They simply marched on, their pounding footsteps unwavering and changeable on the wet, muddy ground. The farmer still stared on as the marching men trampled through the sand-filled mountains.
“What are they?” His wife asked, as they were fully out of the sight-line of the farmer and his wife, whom still stood with wonder at the marching group which now disappeared into the dark shadow of the mountain, the sun’s quick setting caused the long shadows from them both to grow much longer. It was apparent she had never seen the Temsplace before. The farmer, however, had much experience with them.
“They are the children of great Enkur, fists of the priests whom cannot fight.” He spoke with such eloquence.
“Fists of priests who cannot fight?” The wife asked, looking at her wearied husband. “What meaning does that have in such a claim?”
“They are the religious blade of the empire, the greatest children of Ackthal.”
“But I thought the dreaded Sadicistra were the greatest.”
“The Sadicistra are the greatest children of Arkthary, the one of retribution, and suffering. We must be wary for them, for they are dangerous.”
“Why are these warriors moving deep into the mountains?”
“They are preparing to go to Ouridna, in the old land.”
“The old land?”
“My dear, there is much beyond our home, our soft cozy home that shivers with naught but our own work, and when we seek what we can do in our times there are others who do what their Lords demands. We supply those men with what they need to spread the good word of Ackthal to the rest of the world.”
“The world? What nonsense do you speak?”
“It is proven that the world hangs on a silver chain at the end of the World, and the Methronnmin are trying to reach that end. At that silver chain will we climb up to the heavens, and thus we will gain our own salvation, to grow great in such a breaking world. But idle thoughts I manufacture.”
“What idle thoughts are they? I find them interesting, if at the very least.”
“My dear, the Temsplace are a powerful breed of men, they are the paramount of our Lord’s might. At any wish they could raze empires and build new ones with their strength. We are fortunate that they are followers of Ackthal and therefore we are under the soft blade of justice and repentance.”
“Our lord is powerful, I can agree if he could spawn children as great as them, but why is he not compassionate?”
“Compassionate?” The farmer looked at his wife with wonder, thinking lightly – the night-time was completely setting in, the stars already out from their quiet slumber in the darkness of the skies, twinkling brightly as they dazzled upon their shaking moment.
“Rival empires exist, from what I hear. Why does great Ackthal not crush them to aid us?”
“Because Ackthal wishes us to grow ourselves.” The farmer said, softly once more, leaning over and kissing his wife, his hands on her shoulder, his warm fingers feeling the cold, fragile bones on her back. Urging her to sit down, the two of them lowered themselves down to watch the soft passing of the stars.
From the large castle of Necromarnen, pandemonium ensued. Lords were talking and yelling about, their fingers laced with jewels and their arms in thick silky cloth, their beards long and ravishing, their eyes upon cleanly washed faces amongst a large internal dome with torches flaring and fires dancing. Sword-shaped pillars stood on the ends, in a large circular motion, elegant nobles and masters sitting as they looked about, staring at each other with fervent eyes. From there, a massive Temsplace soldier, clad in the similar armour save for a long golden sash across his chest looked from the shadows, his large sword, more immense and gargantuan than most of the nobles there, was held at his arm. From the central sanctum of the large twisted velvet chamber was an armoured man doused in a trump of silver cloth, his arms long and thick and muscled, his frame built and his legs showing the sweating, wired sinew as his face was covered in a helmet that showed only a ‘T’ shaped cover. Behind the helmet, teal green eyes looked with dangerous intent, though nobody could see it in the bleak lighting and the squabbling lords. Lifting his arm, his waved it down quickly, as the hiding Temsplace blew their hooked horns roughly, the blast shocking the nobles as they shook and sat down, the sound of dogs barking in the background, only the soft strumpet of the entertainers clicking in the background.
This man, draped in silver clothing, armour placed majestically over, carried a crown of skeletal human hands. From each hand, on each finger, a gold ring was placed artistically as the man looked about. His face was one of raging fury, but still, nobody could see it. When he spoke, he spoke of anger, of fury, with a rash and coarse voice.
“I demand silence from the court! I demand nothing less than complete obedience. You are higher than animals, yet you act naught of your status! Perhaps I should strip you all of your titles and grant you life amongst the pigs. At least you will be home amongst animals, like the beasts, uncivilized barbarians you are.” He cried out in fury, the Temsplace standing still as they watched their Lord verbally attack the nobles, their satisfaction slated.
“The empires of the Rithos and the Arguzahk have much in their stockpiles, yet they are weak and battered from war against us. They cannot fight the Temsplace! They cannot fight the Sadicistra! I am intent on making Rithos and Arguzahk part of my empire. Now, what says of the court on which has approved of this idea? What of my next move? I wish the answer to my query immediately.” He made a strong emphasis on the word emphasis.
The room was doused in a soft ray of yellow and black, the stone floor carved to perfection, the cracks hidden by long rugs and carpets and curtains that draped over the pillars with symmetry. Emblems of Rams in a bright green were blotched on the black curtains and carpets, the flying banner floating with shattering tenacity. Vizi-Lord still stood there, looking around at the bearded and aging nobles, as they looked back at him with sights of fear at him. “Enkur have pity on such cowards. Show that you are not cowards and that you are men. Honour yourselves!” The Vizi-Lord looked about again.
One of them stood up, a fair-haired man with a dark tan, his eyes showing the whiteness beneath his unchanged black skin, his fingers sparkling with jewels and his neck shining with diamonds and gold. His robes were a peachy orange, and he looked from the Lords to the Vizi-Lord, the man standing in the center of the whole council sanctum. “On behalf of Ephithauros, you have our unbreakable support, Lord Methrossk.” He had a deep, dark voice, before sitting down.
“Good.” The Vizi-Lord said, pointing at the man with fingers of delight. “You are brave.” He turned about to the others. “What of you men? Do you come to your Lord’s favour when I ask? Or shalt an example be carved into your skin?” He said with a cruel, sadistic pleasure, drawing the shining blade on his waist slowly, waiting as they looked with fear, their hands delving back into the deep soft sleeves of their large robes.
One of them, a wrinkled and light skinned man with a soft tan, approached the Vizi-Lord, sighing softly. “Lord Methrossk, you have the pledge of loyalty from the city of Skathos.” He said, before the others began to follow suit in both fear, and loyalty.
“The city of Aurigumn pledges its support to Lord Methrossk.”
“We are to be of yours, Lord Methrossk. Hsac is yours to command.”
“Nakros Eigins is yours, Lord Methrossk.”
“We, of the city of Aslydon, pledge our support to great Methronnmin and you, Lord Methrossk.”
Finally, the last one came, his face in a grim face, his look of one not of fear, but one of concern. He spoke not with an obedient, but with a strong, independent voice. “I can still hear the ringing of the horns in my ears, I can still remember your fresh speech in my blood by mind. I know of the bloodshed that could come from such an endeavour, from such a journey, but I trust in you, Methrossk. You have led us on successful campaigns against the dangerous Rithos and the bloodthirsty Arguzahk for years. While defeat has certainly been a part of our empire, victories outweighs it dearly.” He looked around, sighing once more. “On behalf of the cities of Ssessloth, we pledge our support to Methronn and Methronnmin.” He nodded, as the Vizi-Lord did not move.
Finally, after minutes of silence, the Vizi-Lord cracked and snapped back to vibrant life. Lord Methrossk was in full motion. “Good. Now, the campaign will begin. The forces have been launched at the ports of Ouridna. I have laboured as many men as I could without jeopardizing the safety of the empire.”
“How many have you deployed for this campaign, my lord?”
“Six full armies.”
“Six? That’s 60,000 Temsplace, my Lord! Surely the campaign does not need elite warriors with that high of a number? What of infantry, and cavalry?”
“The Krussars have been deployed. I have 800 ships prepared.”
“600 ships for 60,000 Temsplace? I find that absurd. What about the infantry? The cavalry?” The fair-haired Lord asked, his worry apparent.
“Do not worry, my dear Coslodan.” The Vizi-Lord said reassuringly. “I have prepared another 800 ships for the infantry, the cavalry, and the builders. I have 200,000 men totalling together.” He nodded, as they sighed.
“Why are builders needed?”
“When we reach our destination, I intend to build it in the glory of all of Methronnmin! In Methronnmin’s glory, I will make the castles anew, rebuild the cities of the enemy.” The Vizi-Lord nodded, as the Lords looked at each other with soft, but sorrowful expressions.
The next day, as dawn broke upon the soft, but still warm sands from the chill of last night, the sound of drums could be heard as the yelling and torturous men yelling as armies marched on, the Temsplace walking down in lines onto the ships, their armour carried with them, soldiers talking and preparing themselves as they chatted and wondered on the possible things they could see in the new lands. Methrossk had promised great glory and wealth for those who served in this campaign, and they were willing to join, no matter what.
Specially labelled and sealed barrels were loaded onto ships, being safely handled as the crewmen watched with slightly forceful eyes on the condition of this precious cargo. What was inside, beneath hewn and skilfully created barrels of wood, was a secret, one that only the commanders knew. All that was known was that a jumbling, bungling noise was heard as it moved about in hands, only swivelling up their curiosity.
It was such a sight, marching men in cloven banners and long twisted lines of soldiers skilfully moving in every perfect formation, their feet walking with utmost precision. Cavalry trudged about, monitoring the situation before they themselves entered into the 1,400 ships created for this army. It was a massive endeavour, one that had cost Methronnmin hundreds of talons. Scout ships were made to provide safety for the ships in case of rough seas, in case the Golden Sea was cruel to them that day.
From there, the armies of the Methronnmin prepared themselves to await whatever existed in the lands of their Lords, and whatever they faced would face Methronnmin blade, under the silver banner of Methrossk. In a risky ploy, the Vizi-Lord himself was engaging in the war personally, a large number of his great commanders and generals came with him, their weapons as fresh for the hunger of the blood of the foreign land as much as his, and they awaited for the movement.
Methronn’s greatest invasion force prepared itself as it left Ouridna, the ships once dotting the horizon, disappearing beyond the vastness of the pale rising sun.
The sea was coarse, it was unkind, but the scouting ships allowed the transports to safely endure the hardy nature of the oceans, the whitecaps unperturbed in their raging fury. However, by the sandy coastline, the fleet had reached enemy territory.
Zarazego was a giant sword of marble and limestone, painted a bleak red pigment in the center of the civilization, the stone statues around it brimming with strength and power. Their muscles immense, glimmering and unbelievably large, their physique unconquerable and their faces grim but determined. They encircled the thick base of the tall tower, as its shadow swept over the city of Methronn like a sundial, forming dark rays on the ground like an army of darkness throbbing up. From here, a large, but bony structure was seen from the base of the tower, smaller yet wider, enormous turrets and battlements protruding up as towers and crackling torches were lit aflame from the tops of their edges.
Fences of iron and stone fortresses were seen, enormous snake-like fortified were erected in ages long lost, great libraries of twisting and winding structures of impeccable design dotting the mountainous but dune-filled landscape. Small patches of green were apparent on the Viragius’s blue, shining riverbed, almost like a brilliant gem of vivacious vibrancy, like a large watery tunnel of sparkling diamonds. People walked around, their arms perched softly under the heavy weight of their baskets, pulling and ploughing as they chatted amongst each other, their hands broken and bleeding yet their sighs and hearts soft and wary. From this, one of the few peasants stood with his hands sore and his back aching - he had done his work, and Methronn was a vast city. From his sights, he could see the castle of Necromarnen in the distance, like a triumphant skeletal hand, almost as if the gods themselves had built it, from earthen stone and rock, a massive, untouchable and spiked fortress beyond all reason. It was an obsidian black tint, the size of the monument of the Methronnmin Empire dwarfing all other villages with impunity, with utmost efficiency and unbridled effect. From far-off at his small house on his small patch of farm, the aching farmer sat down upon a chair and looked at the wondrous object.
A large trumpet rang out throughout the kingdom, all at many special intervals, their blasts deafening and their echoes shattering the ears of the people around them, as they cupped their ears carefully but quickly with their red, raw hands, and their faces in thin grimace, waiting for the worst of the sound to end. It was not long before the shrieking pain resided, and the source of the sound was apparent. From a soft, hooked horn, carved from the Methronn Empirical symbol – a Ram – legions of large clad armoured soldiers walked along the pathway, their large feet beating the ground with utmost ferocity as they walked, their eyes and faces covered by a tall and immense armoured helmet, shining and gleaming with a large ‘T’ shaped symbol crudely splashed onto their armour, their shields as massive as their bodies, their armour thick and shining, the stains of mud deftly dried upon their sharp, iron surface. From them, tied onto their backs, large blades were held and tied on their backs, as they marched on, their voices quiet, their speech nonexistent.
They seemed to ignore the farmer, and his wife, whom had just walked out to see the cause of the noise, as they looked on in fear and awe at the marching group of massive warriors. “Temsplace.” The farmer whispered in delight and wonder, his voice raspy and his throat dry. His wife looked at him as the soldiers passed the couple without taking a single glance at them. They simply marched on, their pounding footsteps unwavering and changeable on the wet, muddy ground. The farmer still stared on as the marching men trampled through the sand-filled mountains.
“What are they?” His wife asked, as they were fully out of the sight-line of the farmer and his wife, whom still stood with wonder at the marching group which now disappeared into the dark shadow of the mountain, the sun’s quick setting caused the long shadows from them both to grow much longer. It was apparent she had never seen the Temsplace before. The farmer, however, had much experience with them.
“They are the children of great Enkur, fists of the priests whom cannot fight.” He spoke with such eloquence.
“Fists of priests who cannot fight?” The wife asked, looking at her wearied husband. “What meaning does that have in such a claim?”
“They are the religious blade of the empire, the greatest children of Ackthal.”
“But I thought the dreaded Sadicistra were the greatest.”
“The Sadicistra are the greatest children of Arkthary, the one of retribution, and suffering. We must be wary for them, for they are dangerous.”
“Why are these warriors moving deep into the mountains?”
“They are preparing to go to Ouridna, in the old land.”
“The old land?”
“My dear, there is much beyond our home, our soft cozy home that shivers with naught but our own work, and when we seek what we can do in our times there are others who do what their Lords demands. We supply those men with what they need to spread the good word of Ackthal to the rest of the world.”
“The world? What nonsense do you speak?”
“It is proven that the world hangs on a silver chain at the end of the World, and the Methronnmin are trying to reach that end. At that silver chain will we climb up to the heavens, and thus we will gain our own salvation, to grow great in such a breaking world. But idle thoughts I manufacture.”
“What idle thoughts are they? I find them interesting, if at the very least.”
“My dear, the Temsplace are a powerful breed of men, they are the paramount of our Lord’s might. At any wish they could raze empires and build new ones with their strength. We are fortunate that they are followers of Ackthal and therefore we are under the soft blade of justice and repentance.”
“Our lord is powerful, I can agree if he could spawn children as great as them, but why is he not compassionate?”
“Compassionate?” The farmer looked at his wife with wonder, thinking lightly – the night-time was completely setting in, the stars already out from their quiet slumber in the darkness of the skies, twinkling brightly as they dazzled upon their shaking moment.
“Rival empires exist, from what I hear. Why does great Ackthal not crush them to aid us?”
“Because Ackthal wishes us to grow ourselves.” The farmer said, softly once more, leaning over and kissing his wife, his hands on her shoulder, his warm fingers feeling the cold, fragile bones on her back. Urging her to sit down, the two of them lowered themselves down to watch the soft passing of the stars.
From the large castle of Necromarnen, pandemonium ensued. Lords were talking and yelling about, their fingers laced with jewels and their arms in thick silky cloth, their beards long and ravishing, their eyes upon cleanly washed faces amongst a large internal dome with torches flaring and fires dancing. Sword-shaped pillars stood on the ends, in a large circular motion, elegant nobles and masters sitting as they looked about, staring at each other with fervent eyes. From there, a massive Temsplace soldier, clad in the similar armour save for a long golden sash across his chest looked from the shadows, his large sword, more immense and gargantuan than most of the nobles there, was held at his arm. From the central sanctum of the large twisted velvet chamber was an armoured man doused in a trump of silver cloth, his arms long and thick and muscled, his frame built and his legs showing the sweating, wired sinew as his face was covered in a helmet that showed only a ‘T’ shaped cover. Behind the helmet, teal green eyes looked with dangerous intent, though nobody could see it in the bleak lighting and the squabbling lords. Lifting his arm, his waved it down quickly, as the hiding Temsplace blew their hooked horns roughly, the blast shocking the nobles as they shook and sat down, the sound of dogs barking in the background, only the soft strumpet of the entertainers clicking in the background.
This man, draped in silver clothing, armour placed majestically over, carried a crown of skeletal human hands. From each hand, on each finger, a gold ring was placed artistically as the man looked about. His face was one of raging fury, but still, nobody could see it. When he spoke, he spoke of anger, of fury, with a rash and coarse voice.
“I demand silence from the court! I demand nothing less than complete obedience. You are higher than animals, yet you act naught of your status! Perhaps I should strip you all of your titles and grant you life amongst the pigs. At least you will be home amongst animals, like the beasts, uncivilized barbarians you are.” He cried out in fury, the Temsplace standing still as they watched their Lord verbally attack the nobles, their satisfaction slated.
“The empires of the Rithos and the Arguzahk have much in their stockpiles, yet they are weak and battered from war against us. They cannot fight the Temsplace! They cannot fight the Sadicistra! I am intent on making Rithos and Arguzahk part of my empire. Now, what says of the court on which has approved of this idea? What of my next move? I wish the answer to my query immediately.” He made a strong emphasis on the word emphasis.
The room was doused in a soft ray of yellow and black, the stone floor carved to perfection, the cracks hidden by long rugs and carpets and curtains that draped over the pillars with symmetry. Emblems of Rams in a bright green were blotched on the black curtains and carpets, the flying banner floating with shattering tenacity. Vizi-Lord still stood there, looking around at the bearded and aging nobles, as they looked back at him with sights of fear at him. “Enkur have pity on such cowards. Show that you are not cowards and that you are men. Honour yourselves!” The Vizi-Lord looked about again.
One of them stood up, a fair-haired man with a dark tan, his eyes showing the whiteness beneath his unchanged black skin, his fingers sparkling with jewels and his neck shining with diamonds and gold. His robes were a peachy orange, and he looked from the Lords to the Vizi-Lord, the man standing in the center of the whole council sanctum. “On behalf of Ephithauros, you have our unbreakable support, Lord Methrossk.” He had a deep, dark voice, before sitting down.
“Good.” The Vizi-Lord said, pointing at the man with fingers of delight. “You are brave.” He turned about to the others. “What of you men? Do you come to your Lord’s favour when I ask? Or shalt an example be carved into your skin?” He said with a cruel, sadistic pleasure, drawing the shining blade on his waist slowly, waiting as they looked with fear, their hands delving back into the deep soft sleeves of their large robes.
One of them, a wrinkled and light skinned man with a soft tan, approached the Vizi-Lord, sighing softly. “Lord Methrossk, you have the pledge of loyalty from the city of Skathos.” He said, before the others began to follow suit in both fear, and loyalty.
“The city of Aurigumn pledges its support to Lord Methrossk.”
“We are to be of yours, Lord Methrossk. Hsac is yours to command.”
“Nakros Eigins is yours, Lord Methrossk.”
“We, of the city of Aslydon, pledge our support to great Methronnmin and you, Lord Methrossk.”
Finally, the last one came, his face in a grim face, his look of one not of fear, but one of concern. He spoke not with an obedient, but with a strong, independent voice. “I can still hear the ringing of the horns in my ears, I can still remember your fresh speech in my blood by mind. I know of the bloodshed that could come from such an endeavour, from such a journey, but I trust in you, Methrossk. You have led us on successful campaigns against the dangerous Rithos and the bloodthirsty Arguzahk for years. While defeat has certainly been a part of our empire, victories outweighs it dearly.” He looked around, sighing once more. “On behalf of the cities of Ssessloth, we pledge our support to Methronn and Methronnmin.” He nodded, as the Vizi-Lord did not move.
Finally, after minutes of silence, the Vizi-Lord cracked and snapped back to vibrant life. Lord Methrossk was in full motion. “Good. Now, the campaign will begin. The forces have been launched at the ports of Ouridna. I have laboured as many men as I could without jeopardizing the safety of the empire.”
“How many have you deployed for this campaign, my lord?”
“Six full armies.”
“Six? That’s 60,000 Temsplace, my Lord! Surely the campaign does not need elite warriors with that high of a number? What of infantry, and cavalry?”
“The Krussars have been deployed. I have 800 ships prepared.”
“600 ships for 60,000 Temsplace? I find that absurd. What about the infantry? The cavalry?” The fair-haired Lord asked, his worry apparent.
“Do not worry, my dear Coslodan.” The Vizi-Lord said reassuringly. “I have prepared another 800 ships for the infantry, the cavalry, and the builders. I have 200,000 men totalling together.” He nodded, as they sighed.
“Why are builders needed?”
“When we reach our destination, I intend to build it in the glory of all of Methronnmin! In Methronnmin’s glory, I will make the castles anew, rebuild the cities of the enemy.” The Vizi-Lord nodded, as the Lords looked at each other with soft, but sorrowful expressions.
The next day, as dawn broke upon the soft, but still warm sands from the chill of last night, the sound of drums could be heard as the yelling and torturous men yelling as armies marched on, the Temsplace walking down in lines onto the ships, their armour carried with them, soldiers talking and preparing themselves as they chatted and wondered on the possible things they could see in the new lands. Methrossk had promised great glory and wealth for those who served in this campaign, and they were willing to join, no matter what.
Specially labelled and sealed barrels were loaded onto ships, being safely handled as the crewmen watched with slightly forceful eyes on the condition of this precious cargo. What was inside, beneath hewn and skilfully created barrels of wood, was a secret, one that only the commanders knew. All that was known was that a jumbling, bungling noise was heard as it moved about in hands, only swivelling up their curiosity.
It was such a sight, marching men in cloven banners and long twisted lines of soldiers skilfully moving in every perfect formation, their feet walking with utmost precision. Cavalry trudged about, monitoring the situation before they themselves entered into the 1,400 ships created for this army. It was a massive endeavour, one that had cost Methronnmin hundreds of talons. Scout ships were made to provide safety for the ships in case of rough seas, in case the Golden Sea was cruel to them that day.
From there, the armies of the Methronnmin prepared themselves to await whatever existed in the lands of their Lords, and whatever they faced would face Methronnmin blade, under the silver banner of Methrossk. In a risky ploy, the Vizi-Lord himself was engaging in the war personally, a large number of his great commanders and generals came with him, their weapons as fresh for the hunger of the blood of the foreign land as much as his, and they awaited for the movement.
Methronn’s greatest invasion force prepared itself as it left Ouridna, the ships once dotting the horizon, disappearing beyond the vastness of the pale rising sun.
The sea was coarse, it was unkind, but the scouting ships allowed the transports to safely endure the hardy nature of the oceans, the whitecaps unperturbed in their raging fury. However, by the sandy coastline, the fleet had reached enemy territory.