The waters of the Pirush River are illuminated by the raging fires of the south. The strength of the survivors is boorishly hidden behind stoic glares and mangled armor. These men know no pity, not for others, nor themselves. They willingly give their lives for the simple cause of discord, even whilst staring perplexed at their own pathetic images in the finely polished steel of the countless adversaries.
Be they enemies to some, foes to others, rivals to yet another, can we trace our steps back far enough to remember why? For fear of oppression? To generously nourish the pride of the few? To the few who possess surplus resentment we treat them with the blood of our own men?
Or was it for our home? Some wonder if Stratia is, was, or ever will be the land that our hearts truly belong. We've marched through countless plains and steppes, becoming lost in mountainsides and stubbing our toes and spraining our ankles so badly on the bridges of the land that we've needed to wait days for someone to tell us to get moving again. We've wandered restlessly each night for years. Each day has been spent ravaging the land, turning every stone, sifting through eel-infested waters, and chipping off birch bark, waiting, sifting, salivating for the very taste of stratia once more.
Quixotic eyes lie behind a bloodstained turban. They quickly winced and nearly welled into tears remembering the events of this troubled life. These men have been lied to for generations. The sons and daughters born of loving parents have fought valiantly in the face of oppressive men; Men whose auras felt different - men who moved in such ways that seemed to alter the reality of time and space. Surely this was not the way life was meant to be lived. This was not the way War was to be fought, beyond the mysterious Great Line of chadz.
The land was slowly dying. Though peaceful for months, this morbid and stagnant existence sent whispers throughout Calradia. Some of our men cursed Stratia's name while others clung to their beloved ideals. Some men strove to restore its origins in an external manner: to reforge the good name of Stratia with claims to be the last remaining inheritors and possessing superior ancestry. These men, though mistaken, could not be blamed. Some might argue that the lesser of two evils lies in a reformation. One man will stand aloof - his heart deadened by countless grafted wounds. Another man will acknowledge this exhaustion and the pain will grow so large that change is inevitable. Still, both men live and breathe, though their breathing reeks of different flavors of bile. Both men are mistaken and both men are wretched.
Resting under a tree, the once Lord, now homeless vagrant Uumdi sat underneathe the setting sun in the presence of a dying pine tree.
Moving the cloth that covered his chapped lips, he calmly said "Set up camp here, and we'll endeavor to conquer the bridge in the morn." As the setting sky turned dark, he gazed up at the stars, reflecting on his torn garment. The name Astralis burned in his mind, as he remembered the medic pulling an engraved arrow from his hip. "To Agile" it read.
"Astralis... of the stars.." he muttered to himself. Folk tunes played and beautiful poetic musings were recited in his mind as he envisioned a carefree night of tavern crawling with fellow Calradians. This did not offend his mind, yet the thoughts peacefully floated across its stage. Denars flew and drinks foamed over a game of Karnoffel with Robert Namo and Bran Stark in the parlour room nearest the Astralis Registrar. His mind's eye then focused on Genric, a man from his youth and an apprentice in the Astralis roster. He symbolized a man untainted by the propaganda of the times, a man of pure unbridled potential. They once shared stories of true love and youthful ambition - even these had turned to war during these desperate times.
An internal commotion containing every brave and legendary warrior assailed Uumdi, and the loudest thoughts were of Rodrick's catcalls to Miley in the night. Even memories of testing war machines upon castle walls with the strange foreigners Nebun and Vovka were deposited into his conscience. Even the very scourges of this physical plane; even those darkened figures behind the Great Line of chadz he grew to know and love.
It was then that he opened his eyes to see the darkness of midnight and the brilliance of the the stars. They seemed to shut off for a moment, and methodically reignite in a cascade of radiance. It dawned on him that Stratia lies within each and every man. This is the "Heaven" that some hospitallers had mentioned in times of study and practice.
Uumdi was suffering, and in that moment felt a tiny share of each and every Calradian's suffering. That feeling was overwhelming, a shock to the consciousness, and had it been any larger a portion of sorrow it would surely kill any man or God alike. When we suffer we cause others to suffer. To truly be a Chosen Hand of the Ascended Order of Stratia, we must practice awareness, forgiveness, and seek the ultimate truth always, right? Though our lifestyles seem crude and impulsive, are we not capable of hospitality and sacrifice for humanity too? As the war wages ever onward, Hospitaller may not be our true foe, but rather our own selves - and to them, CHAOS may not be their true foe, but their own respective selves as well.
Though good intentions are not enough, he realized once again that the sacrifice of his brethren was for the simple goal of having a superior atmosphere for war in the world. No matter how civilized man is, war is hell - but it is also the psychological gymnasium for true heroes to be birthed. To truly know suffering is something none of us have asked for, but in these ordeals we should be better able to understand the ailments of others, and be granted fortitude with them.
---
The pounding of boots upon the dirty ground rustled Uumdi's jimmies, but he did not awaken. It was not until a cold slap awakened him that he jolted back to consciousness. Wiping the drool from his face, he realized that dawn had arrived and that men were already mobilizing in the wee hours of the morn. In one last conscious effort, he wished these revelations upon all men with ears to hear.
Many more would die in this transitory war, and though regrettable, these lives were not within his power. Out in the wilderness, fleeing from the Crusader's march, he could only hope that his mental waves reached the bleeding hearts of Calradia, and that the next chapter that the Divine chadz has been planning would consist of greater intelligence and the well-being and interest of everyone in mind. However Chaotic this decision was on the part of his people, Uumdi hopes that the Kingdoms will discuss the credibility of their ideals, and address the truly degenerated state of mankind.
