Silverlight skirting marshlands.
It all started with this location. A dense mist lay upon the river, the slow rythmic trickle of the silverlight as it caresses the marshlands the only sounds.
A flash of white, fluttering through the trees, something disturbs this fine friend, he who is the emblem of the city of light.
Music, music eery and sweet, music to make a spirit cry, filtering through the dense marsh. The music aproaches, behold a miracle, the waters, like the fabled Red Sea part! A magical enchantment holding the waters at bay, like a wall of clear, perfect, glass. The music plays on.
Marching, the cadence of two-thousand feet drumming the earth. The air is cold, yet, winter is still upon this land. The steam of breathing lifts up from the legions, like mildew steaming off a medow in the early morning.
The commanders yell orders to their men, slowly, but surely, the Mighty Sajora, Al'Aziz of the Springdale Fedaykin filters her men among the marshes, slowly inexorably, aproaching Marshton. Fatalus, her guide, and cartographer, Sahid of the Springdale Fedaykin, assists her in navigating through the maze like marsh.
Mighty Legions are assembled, smaller ones dispersed, The people of Marshton dazzled by the ferocity of the troops who have come to finaly liberate them from the Pirate occupation feed the men fruits, and meats, so they may not hunger.
A month the legions stand, and the shrill screams of the crazed parrian wench Narissa can be heard in the distance. The General Pahn, Sa-Fedaykin of the Springdale Fedaykin, Battle-Leader. Rushes to attack an uncoming parrian army and their generals. The parrians, are routed, the pirates limp back home broken, and without an army, Pahn and his troop, victorious.
Another month goes by, the men, are getting restless, rumors that their commanders are not deploying them in the correct fashion abound, morale is sinking, and in the distance, the shrill sceams of the Pirate Wench can once again be heard, the boisterous bellows of her old mariner resounding beside her.
A large army aproaches, one which may destroy the liberators, They did not count on the tenacity of the springdalian few who were present to stand and die by their men if need be, Rikki the ever noble. August the courageous, Fedaykin of Springdale. Neidhart who never quits unless he is told to stand down, and your humble scribe.
Death is dealt, the ship is ridden, the pirtates march onward with the screaming and prodding of their leaders, no organized army is this, but a rabble of bloodthirsty pirates! Hardened men, with pilage and rape on their minds. They come.
Suddenly with a roar, teeth flashing, claws razor sharp, smelling like a million dead things,(really sajora do take a bath) a bear rushes out of the woods, attacking the parrians head on, your humble scribe in tow. Death is dealt 4 times over, the pirates retreat, not before they meet death and the ship, many many times, not without Thakrian assistance could they have made good their escape, for noble Rikki, ever the tactician mounted a counterstroke that destroyed 650 of the pirates, for 250 of ours.
Tonight, after sitting with my men, for days, and months, this General is happy with their vallor and sacrifice. Never a man so proud in his friends, and in his men. Joyous is the day that the people of Marshton can once again claim homage to the City of Dreams.
To you, my dear General Flamestrike, who's idea this all was, I salute you sir.
Your Scribe, Il-Fedaykin Dunccan, The High-Priest of Justice, Troop Whisperer.
Written by my hand on the 1st of Skyelong, in the year 1154.