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Order of the Sword & Rose
Ranger of the North:
Book 1: The Origins.
The moon stands out in the starry skies, the light it gifts to the world below brighter than usual, sending the shadows of trees and plants to dwell hidden underneath their homes, the light claiming every and any space it could. The forest is also eerily silent, no animal nor bug making a noise. The only sound that came from nature is the rustling of leaves, the shades of green colliding together then falling away from each other, caused by the passing of the wind through the trees, over the dirt paths veined all throughout the forest and the stones that bordered them. The wind presses past the trees, even the colossal ones that are held in high regard by the druids that lived within the forest, and by the hunters who find it traditional to pay respects to nature in hopes of a bountiful hunt, regardless of race or creed.
Eventually, the wind travels by the majestic mountains, their peaks dragging across the clouds, the formations of these stone beasts surrounding a valley, filled with plant life, grass and trees growing freely. However, parting this sea of plant-life, is a road made of stone. The wind follows the road deeper into the valley, and tucked away in this valley lays a city, the buildings that inhabit the city of huge proportions.
This city is Talasmira, the heart of a powerful kingdom that spans over the valley’s grassed lands, the mountains, the forests, and beyond there, the deserts, the tundras and the plains. The leader of such a large kingdom, despite his power, is no tyrant, but a wise, charismatic and honorable being, whom sees that all voices, whether it be of nobility or of peasantry, is heard and understood, and leads the lands he reigns over in a similar manner.
However, this evening, the king of such capability and experience has a much more pressing matter in his hands. The city streets were flooded with people, little free room anywhere on the streets. The market of such a city is usually like this, but it was all of the city that was this crowded. Despite the masses in the streets, not a word is heard, except for a few saying prayers. Otherwise, no sounds are made as everyone on the streets stands in anticipation, watching the palace that lays at the heart of their homeland.
The moonlight shines into the chambers of the palace, high above the streets, where an elderly priest donning white robes slowly steps into the chambers, a bundle of rags in his arms. Behind him are his acolytes, who start to softly hum in a soothing melody, however the bundle in the priest’s arms was not letting out such a soothing tone. The elder moves the bundle’s covers so that an infant’s face is covered by moonlight.
The priest’s face softens, looking at the newborn’s light blue eyes, and birthmark resembling a scar on their cheek.
“It’s a boy, the eldest child is a prince,” he says, now smiling at the infant, tears streaming from his eyes over his dry, aged face. Whispers now carry through the chambers, his acolytes repeating the news with one another. Hesitantly, one of his acolytes asks,
“What will he be named, Father Grey Water?” Without pausing in his gaze at the calming youngling, he speaks softly.
“Runeshot. Runeshot will be his name.” Suddenly, the chamber doors swing open, a rather bulky, grizzly- looking dwarf steps in, calling out the priest’s name frantically, sounding out of breath, “Come quick, we have more!”
“And what of this one?”