The Witless Shall Not Speak for The Wise.

[Toddbringer 124]

Bumbullaum lag-nût, Uruk-hai. Khlaaral khûr-ug ghaamp. Khlaaral khûr-ug nût. Shapog kul-izub.

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A Vision.

Thunder.
Black clouds mass in an ominous tempest above Aevos, the atmosphere oppressed by the thickness of the very air itself. From within the center of the squall was an effigy, radiant and gleaming. The earth below began to tremble and shake as cracks formed in its surface, fracturing the crust of the very ground in which mortals tread. These fissures only grew as the gales grew stronger; blowing leaves soon became tree limbs, dust and sand became splintering sandstorms, rock and stone was tossed about just as easily.

Thunder cracked the sky, its booming resonance shook the ground below, casting a tall monk from his feet as all he could do was stare at the hurricane in bewilderment. He stood alone as lightning crackled in the nimbus above, as veins to a beating heart. Moisture leapt from the clouds in a thick blanket of precipitation, pounding on the rippling earth like the tears of a god, and as if beckoning, ghastly apparitions coiled from the broken ground, plunging toward the sky. And the lightning came to meet them, swallowing them into the penumbral abyss.

A Premonition.

Chaos.

Time passes in a flash. The currents in which carried Life and Death clashed beyond the veil of mortal sight. Rivers of Blood replaced broken trails of shattered earth, bathing the world in a thick miasma of smoke and plague. The spoils of war litter the ground; blades of steel, trinkets of gold, bodies of bone. The laments of war's forgotten echo gently through the air, trilling like a lonesome harp in an empty auditorium, a song for deaf ears.

Alas, atop the broken spires of rock and sediment stood looming monoliths, bathed in that blood which the veins of the new earth flowed, and like the very instruments of its creation, they tread a hellish warpath against life itself. In their unwavering unity and insurmountable strength, their beastly ferocity pledged violent strife to all in their way, leaving only an inferno and ash in the wake of their frenzy. 

And below; a writhing pit of vipers, awaiting the slaughter.

A Dream.

Hope.

The flowing Rivers of Blood had grown stagnant; still, and from the placidity came a sprout. Not one, not two, but countless blossoms burst forth from the earth below, blooming and budding with a fervent defiance of the age of anarchy before them, and as if guided by the Hands of Fate unseen, they soared with vigor unwavering, reaching out for the skies above. The clouds tore apart once more, beaming luminous rays of ardent warmth upon them, met in harmonious equilibrium.

In the place of the drums of war came the chatter of beasts, small and large. Delicate beings of life's creation flourished in this endless grove of sprawling vines and thick undergrowth; untamed and unadulterated wilderness, free and mighty. A gentle breeze swept through the trees, and carried within it was something less tangible, like a spirit, present yet formless. The monoliths once more trot ground, yet they carried not the scent of blood nor the aura of senseless brutality, but the very embers of hope, brilliantly smoldering within them, honorable and true.

This group was not alone, but one of many. Countless clusters of teeming strugglers carve their niche in the lush verdant growth, birthing life anew. Above them all, atop a mountain’s crest, stood two.

The Bear and the Wolf. Side by side, stood before a flowering sprout, reaching a zenith from within the very stone of the peak.

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"Lup'Zagbal."

  The Yargoths final words left the cusp of his lips with a rattling breath, that of which would be his last in the Goi. Painted in streaks of white, the aging face of the man was washed away in a gentle rain- strangely placed for that of the desert. The familiar cold embrace of the taciturnity in the air wrapped him like a shroud, cloaking him in the hands of the unknown. Whispers came to him from places elsewhere in his mind as his glossy hues began to cloud, and like a choir of songstresses they sang to him tales of yore, forbidden lyrics from a crypt locked so deep in forgotten lands afar it shook his very core. A tightness in his chest and dryness in this throat bubbled forth as a coughing fit, bud in spite of his age he stood tall. Still they harmonized sweet memories, unfamiliar yet warm.

  A smile began to part his visage, exposing once more those jagged, uncomfortable tusks tucked just below his lower lip. Spiteful was he in the face of dishonor; accusations have come and go, but he took pride in those honorable among them he would still call his brothers. He released a subdued chortling laugh to himself as his vision further fades with time, yet it was as if he had never seen clearer, staring into the skies above, sunlight glistening the beaded sweat on his face. From his side rose a thick, girthy arm, trembling under its own weight. Clutched tightly in the hand attached, ensnared by bulky fingers was the wooden pike to which hung his banner; The banner of Clan Yar, Clan of Wisdom and Victory, the ever-wise and mighty. Extended forth was the relic to the one stood before him, as it left his grasp so too did he, from the place he once called home. A memory was all that remained, that of one tattered with the scars of age and battle, new and old; burns, slashes, pierces, brands and pocks, yet one stood out. The brand of a Duhnah skhelll scarred into the flesh above his hip, that of the brand of the Yar clan. This same brand burned into the wooden haft of the banner, besides a short few words.
 

"Lat-am turkûrz."

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[Jihnyny 2572]

Grimruk leaves his wise friend with a last goodbye, taking the gift Toad'Yar has prepared this whole time.