"One year ago, today. The First of June, of the year 2016. A day that would change the lives of thousands. A day that marked the fall of many, and the rise of few. On this day, a small community occupied by less than a hundred people was overrun by the ravenous minions of a man with considerable power. A man whose minions would obediently do anything he asked of them. He fed them propoganda, teaching them his ways in a new land, pushing to overcome the reluctant fighters who were there first, as has happened so many times in human history. Every one of these people had their own motives and drives, desires to achieve in this new land. Some were smarter than others, and immediately designated teams under their leader to set up bases for supply collection. The naive ones served the smarter, forming sub-factions to the ultimate one under their glorious leader, who continued to tour the land and show off all it contained. He portrayed a land of milk and honey, wealth and growth, glory and fame, and yet... the members saw little of it. The fighters of the land quickly struck down their bases, raw power and guerilla techniques overcoming what they didn't have by way of numbers. Some say that in one battle, three men slew forty of the newcomers. But this did not stop the endless wave of brutes who sucked the land dry. Villages, bases, farms, and sanctuaries sprung up at a remarkable speed, the faction members working to supply each other and even put together armor and powerful weapons to fight back against the original hundred. One by one, they began to fall. Whether killed in combat, or deserting due to lost hope, the hundred slowly began to grow weaker. Their numbers slowly but surely decreased, and the newcomers surged with pride at the terrible deeds they were commiting. The leader's propoganda grew at an explosive rate, encouraging the many who came that the original men had declared war first, and that they deserved to die.Hope gew thin as wave after wave of newcomers trampled the once thriving land. None paid attention to the fact that, outside of the rich who controlled the operations, their own men were starving and dying off. Bodies were strewn across the new land, falling to exhaustion in the middle of their tracks. Backpacks overflowing with useless items, tree trunks bare from those who desperately ate the last remaining apples. Outside the few sanctuaries whose locations had become secret, the newcomers were dying too, at what would be a remarkable rate. However, the leader, rich and proud, would not help his people. He reaped the rewards, took the best equipment his slaves had to offer, and pushed to murder what was left of the hundred, hoping to claim or kill everything that was good about this new land until nothing was left.The original hundred were now down to fifty, and desperate fear had stricken them all. Each had slain hundreds, even thousands, but the newcomers still outnumbered them by a considerable amount. For every one they killed, ten more would join the fight. For every base destroyed, ten more would be erected. Every farm, sanctuary, or monument they found would be blown sky-high, and yet they did continued to appear. They were strong, brave, and proud, but their inability to overcome the continually unleashing tides was bending the backs of even their most powerful. Hope seemed lost.Then, during a meeting, one man approached with an idea. He had looked closely into the propaganda that the newcomers' leader continually released, analyzing the psychology he used to trick his faction into ignoring the death of their friends and keep reaping the fruits of the land with no care for consequence. This man came forward with his own propoganda, a trick that he hoped would turn the newcomers against themselves.See, he knew that they wanted to all be special like the leader himself. He knew they all wanted designated rank, their names known among the community over others. Not everyone could be known over everyone else, and yet each and every one desired this special individuality because it gave them a chance to be closer to their leader. With individuality came a stronger chance of getting to directly speak to the leader, to enter the throne room and witness the beautiful words that came from his mouth. And so, the man of the fifty remaining released his project.The man knew the fifty were legendary to the newcomers already. Though they were hated, they certainly were feared, especially knowing each of the fifty had slain thousands of the newcomers. The man figured he could take advantage of their legendary status to invite the newcomers in, trick them into thinking they were part of the fifty, and then fighting against themselves.The man assumed a name for the fifty; he called them Veterans, and in the propaganda said that they were here first. This land was theirs, and they would never stop fighting and killing. But he promised them a catch. If they could join his team, a new faction under the leadership of the Veterans, they would be given the rare gifts that only the fifty owned; they could thrive, and be rich, fame would be passed around and each could finally be special, if only they turned against their glorious leader.The Veteran released his propaganda, and it instantly spread like wildfire. The dying took up arms against their friends, attempting to convince them to join the war against themselves, or risk being murdered themselves. The smarter of the newcomers became spies, infiltrating the greater ranks in the faction. Then, in the quiet of night, they'd give the Veteran leader the locations of bases, sanctuaries, monuments. The fifty would split and swiftly move from location to location, destroying the progress the newcomers made and ending their pitiful lives at a far greater rate than ever before. Screams rose into every single night now as the fifty tore apart lives. Higher ranks in the faction had their movement plans revealed, and would be swiftly assassinated. No one was safe anymore.And the newcomer's leader did finally notice the death at his feet. His numbers diminished at a remarkable speed, far greater than the rate at which he could get new men into the land. Fear began to bite into him as the number of people calling for his death grew greater. His minions fought each other relentlessly, killing themselves off. His sanctuaries and farms were burnt down every day. The leader continued to release propaganda, desperate to rally his troops, but with fear and sickness in all the lower levels of his military, he could no longer sweep the world with the strength that he once knew. The legendary fifty, these Veterans, were unstoppable.In a fit of rage, the leader demanded a duel against the Veteran who smote his men with hope. He stormed out his home, guarded by his two strongest men, swiftly traveling across the land to meet the Veteran leader in a castle the fifty once lived in, but now had abandoned. He threw the doors open, ascending innumerable floors of the castle, its remarkable architecture even impressing him through his rage. After hours of searching the massive structure, he arrived at the door to the throne room, and told his men to wait outside. He brandished his sword, took a deep breath, and threw the door open.At the other end of the hall sat the Veteran leader on his dark red throne, grinning wryly at him. Crumbling pillars stood at either side, and to the right was an opening into the sky, revealing a startling drop to the grassy plains below. "I'm surprised you actually showed up," his voice boomed from the end of the throne room. The faction leader had never heard the voice of a Veteran before, but its power shook his bones as it echoed through the empty rooms of the castle. "I gotta say, I'm impressed."The leader swallowed, filled with fear. These men were legendary. The bloodstained sword the leader casually held on his lap had cut open the throats of an innumerable amount of his men. The sly grin on the Veteran's face was charismatic and intimidating; it was no wonder he could trick the newcomer's men into fighting each other. The Veteran's casual demeanor was an insult to his leadership, his military power. No one should look the newcomer in the eye and not feel fear, and yet... this man did not. Not only was he void of fear, but his casual confidence made the newcomer shake where he stood. For the first time in his life, he felt true fear. His men were at the other side of the door, but he could not back down now."Don't be surprised," he said, straining to hide his fear and keep his own intimidating voice intact. "I never back down to the challenge."The Veteran stood, the grin never leaving his face, his dark eyes piercing the newcomer's soul. He walked forward, his footsteps echoing through the once thriving castle until he looked the newcomer directly in the face. He extended his hand, offering to shake on a pact of fairness. In this land, fairness did not exist; but the Veteran knew that if he wanted to truly beat the newcomer, he would need to convince his minions that he'd won fairly and without deceit.Their hands touched, and the newcomer flinched at the icy coldness in his hand. A hand that had strangled so many of his own men. The hand that gripped the sword that doomed his military. Bitterness and hatred filled the newcomer as he stared the Veteran in the eye, his wry gaze never fading. Finally he wrenched his hand away and turned to take a few steps back.Fate watched over them as they looked each other in the eye one last time in a final moment of peace. After this moment, one of them would die, and the other would keep the land. The hatred in the air at this time was palpable. The biggest superpowers in the world would stared each other in the eye, ready to begin a battle that would be told for centuries.And without another moment's hesitation, the newcomer dove forward and swung his sword.The Veteran confidently parried, the clang of metal screeching through the sky, before taking a step to the side and swinging back, the force of his swing knocking the newcomer's arm away with startling ease. The leaders danced around each other, swinging their blades and dodging the other's weaving in and out of attack range, testing weaknesses and predicting movements in a desperate final attempt to end the battle. The newcomer had quickly regained his confidence, swinging with strength equal to the Veteran, showing off his own speed in comparison.Clangs of metal screeched through the sky, the unearthly screams calling as newcomers gathered around the base of the castle to listen while their leader fought the terror of the land.Slowly, the leaders began to strike each other as their strength wore off. The Veteran nicked the newcomer in the shoulder, denting his armor and bruising the skin underneath, but not before getting sliced across the side and having blood leak down his own armor. An evil smile touched the newcomer's face as an angry yell shook the hall, its echo reaching the minions below, who promptly cheered.Other Veterans watched from a hill in the distance, and the yell and subsequent echo of cheering made them worry. They climbed their horses and took off to the castle, fearing the worse, but knowing there was still hope as long as the clash of blades screamed over the lands.The Veteran, angered by blood, swung with incredible power, batting the newcomer's sword to the side and attacking with incredible speed. The newcomer, weak from battle, backed off, suddenly filled with fear as the Veteran seemed to draw from a reserve of power, triggered by his furious anger and passion.This land would not fall to the newcomers.The leader missed a parry, and the Veteran sliced straight through the leader's chestplate, the reinforced armor falling to the floor in a heavy thud, revealing the newcomer's chest.In this moment, the Veteran could taste the fear in his eyes.He swung low, causing the leader to skip back, bending over and raising his sword to swing back. The Veteran anticipated this, ducking beneath the blade, but not parrying as the leader thought he would. And suddenly, the newcomer realized his mistake.As the momentum of his arm swung his body sideways, the Veteran lunged, shoving the sword deep into the leader's side.He screamed, pain filling his body as the jagged blade tore apart his insides, cutting blood flow to his limbs and causing him to drop his own sword. The echoes of his terror at death flew over the land, stopping all the battles that were happening across the land. In a single instant, the whole world knew the war was over.The Veteran slipped his sword out of the crumpled body in front of him, walking to the open air in the side of the castle and looking down as his friends charged across the land, cheering and cutting down the newcomers listening from the ground. The leader climbed to the bottom to help, celebrating as the ranks of the land began to fall apart.And so the reign of terror ended, and the land slowly began to become fruitful again. However, not everything was good, and the misfortune of political dissension grew in the Veterans as their leader, who had grown soft toward the remaining newcomers who had worked for him, refused to help kill them off. He wanted to welcome them into the Veterans and reward them for being spies and revealing the coordinates of so many important strongholds in the newcomer army, but the others wanted them dead. The fifty grew to hate the title of "Veteran," resenting that their friend now called the few remaining newcomers under this name. Some stayed friends, but others went off on their own, separating the fifty into a couple rival groups. There were the conservative ones, who continued to kill off every newcomer they could find, and the Veterans, who did not try to kill the others, but instead tried to mind their own business and stay away.Despite this bitter end of friendship however the land began to thrive again. No longer bent over by hundreds of thousands of people, the plants grew once more, and rare devices and trophies began to no longer be rare once again. Soon enough, everyone had everything they'd ever need, equipped with the best armor and weapons from the land's legendary blacksmith, backpacks filled with valuables and hidden storages filled with things that once were impossible to find. Despite the divide in society, the world was mostly content.The corpses slowly rotted and disappeared, bones poking out of the sand being the only thing that indicated they once existed. The name of the faction slowly faded, no longer being used to remember the history, but instead dominantly using the term "newcomer". As is said, the winners write the history, and many details in the battles were lost to the pride of the original fifty. However, to say the victory was not dominant and overwhelming would be wrong.This all happened one year ago, beginning on this day. The day the ships first landed, and the curse was unleashed on the land of the Two Builders. I was one of the fifty who survived, and I believe the tale needs to be remembered. We need to remember those we lost so that a tragedy like this never occurs again." - Toro 2017
Hope gew thin as wave after wave of newcomers trampled the once thriving land. None paid attention to the fact that, outside of the rich who controlled the operations, their own men were starving and dying off. Bodies were strewn across the new land, falling to exhaustion in the middle of their tracks. Backpacks overflowing with useless items, tree trunks bare from those who desperately ate the last remaining apples. Outside the few sanctuaries whose locations had become secret, the newcomers were dying too, at what would be a remarkable rate. However, the leader, rich and proud, would not help his people. He reaped the rewards, took the best equipment his slaves had to offer, and pushed to murder what was left of the hundred, hoping to claim or kill everything that was good about this new land until nothing was left.
The original hundred were now down to fifty, and desperate fear had stricken them all. Each had slain hundreds, even thousands, but the newcomers still outnumbered them by a considerable amount. For every one they killed, ten more would join the fight. For every base destroyed, ten more would be erected. Every farm, sanctuary, or monument they found would be blown sky-high, and yet they did continued to appear. They were strong, brave, and proud, but their inability to overcome the continually unleashing tides was bending the backs of even their most powerful. Hope seemed lost.
Then, during a meeting, one man approached with an idea. He had looked closely into the propaganda that the newcomers' leader continually released, analyzing the psychology he used to trick his faction into ignoring the death of their friends and keep reaping the fruits of the land with no care for consequence. This man came forward with his own propoganda, a trick that he hoped would turn the newcomers against themselves.
See, he knew that they wanted to all be special like the leader himself. He knew they all wanted designated rank, their names known among the community over others. Not everyone could be known over everyone else, and yet each and every one desired this special individuality because it gave them a chance to be closer to their leader. With individuality came a stronger chance of getting to directly speak to the leader, to enter the throne room and witness the beautiful words that came from his mouth. And so, the man of the fifty remaining released his project.
The man knew the fifty were legendary to the newcomers already. Though they were hated, they certainly were feared, especially knowing each of the fifty had slain thousands of the newcomers. The man figured he could take advantage of their legendary status to invite the newcomers in, trick them into thinking they were part of the fifty, and then fighting against themselves.
The man assumed a name for the fifty; he called them Veterans, and in the propaganda said that they were here first. This land was theirs, and they would never stop fighting and killing. But he promised them a catch. If they could join his team, a new faction under the leadership of the Veterans, they would be given the rare gifts that only the fifty owned; they could thrive, and be rich, fame would be passed around and each could finally be special, if only they turned against their glorious leader.
The Veteran released his propaganda, and it instantly spread like wildfire. The dying took up arms against their friends, attempting to convince them to join the war against themselves, or risk being murdered themselves. The smarter of the newcomers became spies, infiltrating the greater ranks in the faction. Then, in the quiet of night, they'd give the Veteran leader the locations of bases, sanctuaries, monuments. The fifty would split and swiftly move from location to location, destroying the progress the newcomers made and ending their pitiful lives at a far greater rate than ever before. Screams rose into every single night now as the fifty tore apart lives. Higher ranks in the faction had their movement plans revealed, and would be swiftly assassinated. No one was safe anymore.
And the newcomer's leader did finally notice the death at his feet. His numbers diminished at a remarkable speed, far greater than the rate at which he could get new men into the land. Fear began to bite into him as the number of people calling for his death grew greater. His minions fought each other relentlessly, killing themselves off. His sanctuaries and farms were burnt down every day. The leader continued to release propaganda, desperate to rally his troops, but with fear and sickness in all the lower levels of his military, he could no longer sweep the world with the strength that he once knew. The legendary fifty, these Veterans, were unstoppable.
In a fit of rage, the leader demanded a duel against the Veteran who smote his men with hope. He stormed out his home, guarded by his two strongest men, swiftly traveling across the land to meet the Veteran leader in a castle the fifty once lived in, but now had abandoned. He threw the doors open, ascending innumerable floors of the castle, its remarkable architecture even impressing him through his rage. After hours of searching the massive structure, he arrived at the door to the throne room, and told his men to wait outside. He brandished his sword, took a deep breath, and threw the door open.
At the other end of the hall sat the Veteran leader on his dark red throne, grinning wryly at him. Crumbling pillars stood at either side, and to the right was an opening into the sky, revealing a startling drop to the grassy plains below. "I'm surprised you actually showed up," his voice boomed from the end of the throne room. The faction leader had never heard the voice of a Veteran before, but its power shook his bones as it echoed through the empty rooms of the castle. "I gotta say, I'm impressed."
The leader swallowed, filled with fear. These men were legendary. The bloodstained sword the leader casually held on his lap had cut open the throats of an innumerable amount of his men. The sly grin on the Veteran's face was charismatic and intimidating; it was no wonder he could trick the newcomer's men into fighting each other. The Veteran's casual demeanor was an insult to his leadership, his military power. No one should look the newcomer in the eye and not feel fear, and yet... this man did not. Not only was he void of fear, but his casual confidence made the newcomer shake where he stood. For the first time in his life, he felt true fear. His men were at the other side of the door, but he could not back down now.
"Don't be surprised," he said, straining to hide his fear and keep his own intimidating voice intact. "I never back down to the challenge."
The Veteran stood, the grin never leaving his face, his dark eyes piercing the newcomer's soul. He walked forward, his footsteps echoing through the once thriving castle until he looked the newcomer directly in the face. He extended his hand, offering to shake on a pact of fairness. In this land, fairness did not exist; but the Veteran knew that if he wanted to truly beat the newcomer, he would need to convince his minions that he'd won fairly and without deceit.
Their hands touched, and the newcomer flinched at the icy coldness in his hand. A hand that had strangled so many of his own men. The hand that gripped the sword that doomed his military. Bitterness and hatred filled the newcomer as he stared the Veteran in the eye, his wry gaze never fading. Finally he wrenched his hand away and turned to take a few steps back.
Fate watched over them as they looked each other in the eye one last time in a final moment of peace. After this moment, one of them would die, and the other would keep the land. The hatred in the air at this time was palpable. The biggest superpowers in the world would stared each other in the eye, ready to begin a battle that would be told for centuries.
And without another moment's hesitation, the newcomer dove forward and swung his sword.
The Veteran confidently parried, the clang of metal screeching through the sky, before taking a step to the side and swinging back, the force of his swing knocking the newcomer's arm away with startling ease. The leaders danced around each other, swinging their blades and dodging the other's weaving in and out of attack range, testing weaknesses and predicting movements in a desperate final attempt to end the battle. The newcomer had quickly regained his confidence, swinging with strength equal to the Veteran, showing off his own speed in comparison.
Clangs of metal screeched through the sky, the unearthly screams calling as newcomers gathered around the base of the castle to listen while their leader fought the terror of the land.
Slowly, the leaders began to strike each other as their strength wore off. The Veteran nicked the newcomer in the shoulder, denting his armor and bruising the skin underneath, but not before getting sliced across the side and having blood leak down his own armor. An evil smile touched the newcomer's face as an angry yell shook the hall, its echo reaching the minions below, who promptly cheered.
Other Veterans watched from a hill in the distance, and the yell and subsequent echo of cheering made them worry. They climbed their horses and took off to the castle, fearing the worse, but knowing there was still hope as long as the clash of blades screamed over the lands.
The Veteran, angered by blood, swung with incredible power, batting the newcomer's sword to the side and attacking with incredible speed. The newcomer, weak from battle, backed off, suddenly filled with fear as the Veteran seemed to draw from a reserve of power, triggered by his furious anger and passion.
This land would not fall to the newcomers.
The leader missed a parry, and the Veteran sliced straight through the leader's chestplate, the reinforced armor falling to the floor in a heavy thud, revealing the newcomer's chest.
In this moment, the Veteran could taste the fear in his eyes.
He swung low, causing the leader to skip back, bending over and raising his sword to swing back. The Veteran anticipated this, ducking beneath the blade, but not parrying as the leader thought he would. And suddenly, the newcomer realized his mistake.
As the momentum of his arm swung his body sideways, the Veteran lunged, shoving the sword deep into the leader's side.
He screamed, pain filling his body as the jagged blade tore apart his insides, cutting blood flow to his limbs and causing him to drop his own sword. The echoes of his terror at death flew over the land, stopping all the battles that were happening across the land. In a single instant, the whole world knew the war was over.
The Veteran slipped his sword out of the crumpled body in front of him, walking to the open air in the side of the castle and looking down as his friends charged across the land, cheering and cutting down the newcomers listening from the ground. The leader climbed to the bottom to help, celebrating as the ranks of the land began to fall apart.
And so the reign of terror ended, and the land slowly began to become fruitful again. However, not everything was good, and the misfortune of political dissension grew in the Veterans as their leader, who had grown soft toward the remaining newcomers who had worked for him, refused to help kill them off. He wanted to welcome them into the Veterans and reward them for being spies and revealing the coordinates of so many important strongholds in the newcomer army, but the others wanted them dead. The fifty grew to hate the title of "Veteran," resenting that their friend now called the few remaining newcomers under this name. Some stayed friends, but others went off on their own, separating the fifty into a couple rival groups. There were the conservative ones, who continued to kill off every newcomer they could find, and the Veterans, who did not try to kill the others, but instead tried to mind their own business and stay away.
Despite this bitter end of friendship however the land began to thrive again. No longer bent over by hundreds of thousands of people, the plants grew once more, and rare devices and trophies began to no longer be rare once again. Soon enough, everyone had everything they'd ever need, equipped with the best armor and weapons from the land's legendary blacksmith, backpacks filled with valuables and hidden storages filled with things that once were impossible to find. Despite the divide in society, the world was mostly content.
The corpses slowly rotted and disappeared, bones poking out of the sand being the only thing that indicated they once existed. The name of the faction slowly faded, no longer being used to remember the history, but instead dominantly using the term "newcomer". As is said, the winners write the history, and many details in the battles were lost to the pride of the original fifty. However, to say the victory was not dominant and overwhelming would be wrong.
This all happened one year ago, beginning on this day. The day the ships first landed, and the curse was unleashed on the land of the Two Builders. I was one of the fifty who survived, and I believe the tale needs to be remembered. We need to remember those we lost so that a tragedy like this never occurs again." - Toro 2017