An Age of Conflict

[ForestHunter 9]

13th of The Grand Harvest

Year 58 of the Second Age


After the series of events that had gone on the last few days, Kevin had found himself restless. Raising a blade was simply not enough in this Age of Conflict. Where those who may have once called each other ally instead rile the flames of war and the blood of soldiers must be spilled. It was simply not enough, however, to lend a blade to one war or another. For war would not end in this age, it seemed. Or at least in Kevins eyes. It was this day as he listened on to the squabblings of those around him and recalled the similarities of it all across the other cities, it recalled a low chuckle.

"How similar we all are, yet we are too blind to see it. To say it." He stated, sounding defeated as the rains of Elysium poured down as they usually did. "Enough of it. Enough!" He seemed to scold the rain, looking up at it for a long moment in silence. As his gaze cast back down to the street he turned toward home yet came to a stop. There it was, the foundation stone of Old Elysium. Standing there, he couldn't help but stare at the rock that had managed to withstand the rain all these years. A low nod followed as a newly awakened wisdom drew over him.

With a shift, Kevin would unbuckle the blade at his hip and kneel, bowing his head as he did so. With a clear reverence he spoke a pledge.


"May the gods, both kind and cruel, hear my vow. I shall not raise my blade with intent to harm another. Hear my vow, in an age of conflict, that I would wish for peace. To take the path of self defense, and to seek the betterment of my brothers both within and without. We are all children of Almaris. Give me the strength to protect, and I will never raise my blade for the heat of war."

Kevin would pause a moment, after his vow, and wait. Though what he waited for was still entirely unclear. He would unstheathe his weapon and prick his palm, placing a hand print of his blood on the scabbard, then holding it up to the foundation stone. There would be no further comment, though, as he stood and tied the blade back to his person. Out came a rough piece of blue cloth to tie off the small line on his palm. Not a major wound, but enough to sting. A glance went upward, to the sky, then he would depart once more.


Thus would begin his Oath. To protect only, and never to seek war or conflict with the many races of Almaris. For an Age of Conflict must end, or we shall all be consumed by it.