The Year One
It was the time of change. The world was rediscovering itself in the aftermath of the great quake. This quake caused our planet to shift, creating a coming together of the lands. We were afraid. We did not know what to expect. The land no longer spoke to us.
Across the vast plains sits the city of Artrack. Central to the surrounding villages, Artrack sits atop a small plateau. Wood and rope ladders are used to climb to the top, a five-minute journey–two minutes for the strongest warriors. Yori was not a warrior, but scaled the ladders with the same swiftness of the best climber, Ignar. There was a silent understanding between them. Yori and Ignar passed glances over many seasons. They never spoke of their skills, nor did they challenge each other. The shame and burden of losing kept their tongues at bay. The silence saying all it needed to say to keep their reputations untainted. Theirs was an understanding among spiritual warriors. This wisdom kept the peace among their people.
The night laid a blanket of darkness over our land. Every manner of beast roamed amidst the moonlight, hunting for a predawn meal. As we walked the 50 paces toward Artrack, the dead leaves rustled beneath our feet. We pushed aside giant green leaves with large purple veins spidering out to the tips. Dew fell from their edges, cascading onto tiny brush that lay low to the ground, like creeping vines stringing a path to their destiny.
Our destiny was like that of the vines, uncertain of the end, but sure of the journey. Our journey was the only thing we could be sure of; all else was a dream of a life not within our grasp. Our future was uncertain. Ahead of us, near the clearing, we could hear the rush of waterfalls surrounding our secluded world. The water, our lifeblood, runs to the river Xior. At the base of the river lives the spirit of our people.
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