• Out of the chilling darkness came the first strike, a bone white shaft with blood red feathers. It was an arrow to start a war, to kill a king, and one that was quickly forgotten in the ensuing torrent of battle and bloodshed. Many good men defended that hilltop fort and many died for it. Even though they lost brothers or fathers or sons they fought and they held. They triumphed, for Fate had declared that they would.
    Let me back up. I can’t just tell you the end of the story. You would be confused. So here I go, repeating a story that I heard from my father, who heard it from his father, who heard it from some crazy hermit who wandered to his campfire on cold, lonely night. This is the story of two empires, two clashing titans and their struggle. More then that however it’s the story of a world and it’s gods, the story of one man and his desire for change.
    On the first eve of Drakenmoon, The lunar month of conquest, a shrill cry rends the air of a small village. Cheers rise up from the church as a new life sparks into existence. The whole town has gathered to watch as the child draws his second breath. They all feel something about this child; some feel that he’ll do great things; some feel that he’ll die a tragic death; others can’t feel anything past the wine. Those who feel something are right in some fashion. And those who can’t are perhaps the lucky ones.
    The child grew up fast, by the age of 3 he could speak like a grown man; by the age of 5 he could read and write three languages. By twelve he was a paragon of the human form and a prodigy of human society. He never tried to excel anywhere yet he always did. Even as he grew into this wonderful, fantastic person he never lost sight of his roots, he treated his parents with respect and did everything he could to help the village. The townsfolk always were willing to teach him something new, and he was willing to return the favor.
    Even as a teenager something’s never changed. At the age of sixteen when most men are restless, he was content to stay home and live a simple life. He loved the feel of the plow in his hands, the timeworn handles fitting him like no one before. He adored the sound of the birds before dawn, their sweet song filling him with joy and every whistle reminding him of the beauty inherent in the world. Evenings were his favorite time of day, when he would come home and work with clay. Every time he smelled the earthy aroma it inspired him to give back,, everyone in the village had one of his cups, or bowls, or statues.
    Now a story isn’t much of a story without conflict. Who would read this if all he did was live a simple life in a simple village? No one would, so it’s good that he doesn’t. Instead it all changes, suddenly. No He doesn’t watch his father be killed by bandits or his village burn down around him. No king rides through and claims him as a long lost son, and no princess wants him as her prince. No it changes when he learns that there are other people in the world. That no matter what he does for his village there will always be someone out there who is suffering. Many people give up when they realize this, but not our boy. Oh no, he decides to work harder and help as many people as possible. He decides to save the world.
    Yeah, It’s an oft-told tale but there is something strange about this one. More then the Dark beings that stalk the earth or the Arcane power coursing through the world. It might be something about this man, His pose or his personality. It may be something to do with his name, Arathorn, and the meaning behind it. Or it might be the idea of Innocence corrupted or corruption purified, and that no one knows the difference. The idea of being abandoned by one god only to be saved by another. Regardless the world has had it’s fair share of problems and one man can’t change it all, but he can sure as hell try.