I bring you a story of tragedy and loss. Of pain filled memories and tear streaked cheeks. The homes of the poor burned and pillaged. The wealth of the rich smoldered and loss.
The mighty and infamous General Zar with his innumerable army made of ashes and bones. They burrowed their way through the valley, through the hills of Ashterath and across the sea of Peril. The once sparkling city of Sapphira was turned to the metropolis of blood and flesh. To conquer, to destroy: this was their motto.
The army of Shadows is what they were called. They were not men. They were not women. They were something entirely not of this world. Humanoid, but containing no hint of human inside of their withering corpses. Their teeth were like shark's. The sting of their blades were like the fangs of a viper. Their eyes were cruel and ruthless, filled with no sign of life, but only of the cold and barren mountain side.
Village after village they turned into ashes. Their leader Zar was hell-bent on ruling the world. On turning the lush and green Kingdom of Arrowhald into a harsh and lifeless wasteland. For such was their homeland. They crawled their way out of the hell hole of which they were born and were determined to make everywhere like it.
The Shadow army could not be reasoned with; would not cease at the pleas of the children or the cries of their mothers. The country men fought valiantly day and night, but to no avail could not defeat Zar and his army. No mortal blade could slice through their bones. No human scheme seemed to rifle their plans.
Alas, arose a child of eighteen. A boy of good heart and brave intentions. Having no mother or father, he had nothing of which to lose. Archer was his name. Not because of skill with the bow, but because of his keen senses and wits. Bestowed upon him as a child was the gift of Victory. A gift handed down century after century to the ones who would one day save their homes.
"I will prevail. I will return home," he whispered. The prior a song in his heart, the latter a promise.
Up and up, Archer climbed the mountain of Zoranth; the highest and deadliest of the entire mountain range of Arrowhald. For legend had it, that the only weapon capable of defeating the army of Shadows was the stone of Light. Hewn from the great sun itself, it contained energy and life. Many tried to retrieve to stone and failed. The cold and harsh winds of the mountain were relentless. Haunting songs beat and trembled through the mind; driving everyone who tried to climb the mountain insane. Voices of the dead and cries of the weak tore through the mountain side. And if that still did not end the life of the mountain climber, then the deadly terrain and bone shattering cold did. It was all an illusion. It was all from the dark spell that General Zar had cast over the mountain range to prevent anyone from succeeding.
But no one had the gift of Victory such that Archer contained. It was written on his bones and boiling beneath his skin. It was pumping through his veins, a living system of liquid gold. The howls of the haunted came, but they were too weak to invade Archer's keen but mighty ears. The cries of the dead and the lamenting of the mournful stabbed at his being, trying to invade his mind, his, heart, his soul; but not one word reached him. Finally the cold came. A deadly and unforgiving being. Slowly creeping its way into the skin. It was numbing, it was at war with his whole existence. It fought, and pricked and stabbed at his fingertips, toes, nose and ears. Archer began to shiver slightly. But he kept on trekking. A stone throw away and there it was. The most bright and magnificent creation Archer had ever beheld. He could feel the light, feel the power and life radiating off of its surface.
Archer made a step towards his Kingdom's salvation and fell to his knees. Something pierced his heart and took away his breath. It was the cold. A living and visible being, now that he was so far up the mountain. It was Zar's last result. Cold stood before him, a giant wall of the most beautiful blue, but the most deadly sting. Archer couldn't help the convulsions that wracked through his body, that caused him to dry heave and cough up his mere berries and bread he had at midday. Cold gripped him by the throat and lifted his feet off of the sow laden ground. Archer couldn't kick, he couldn't scream; for everything within his being was frozen. Frozen as the Sea of Peril and the ports of Sapphira in the winter. He was frozen, and hard as a crystal. Behind Cold, the stone of Light pulsed, as if sensing its redeemer was near. Cold grinned maliciously at Archer, a lifeless dread filled sneer.
