And so our story starts In a land like many others, under a sun like so many, with such a similar blue sky embracing it, walks a man. Much like the Heavens overhead, there is not much to differentiate him from so many others, without the context of the lands he walks.

What does a long coat mean here? it is a uniform, not of a line soldier, no, this is not such a blessed and bountiful place to gild those who are sent to die in the trappings of their nation; Steel armor still reigns. Here a long coat is the trappings of an officer, a trainer, a leader; not nobility. All to make it easier to point out and find such an officer so they might tell those chosen to die where they might dig their graves that much easier.

These long coats are made of thick hide. They are properly oiled to repel the rain, so much so their natural brown tones are taken to an almost black, likewise the thick fur lining them is made to protect against the chill of long vigils. We have spoken long enough on the coat, it tells us what we need to know about the man that wears it, what else? what other ordinary facet tells a story we've not heard.

The man’s hair being black, mostly straight, long in cut, is not terribly common in this land, all for a few north-lying villages. So that tells us he is of them, and given his northward Journey, it tells us he is headed home; headed home from a war. He carries himself with a long comfortable stride, burdened only with a single large tubular bag hefted on his back, and the barest hint of a pommel peeking out from his open coat.

The weather is fair and chilly, but not enough to keep the birds from singing. At the same time, it's not so warm that a day's travel in it doesn't make one yearn for a warm hearth to sit by at the end of it. Lovely weather all in all, because why should a tragedy be heralded by storm clouds, why should the heavens themself give omen to a single traveler? After all... isn't the clear light of day the best medium in which to see horror laid bare?

Approaching his home, there is no sign of what waits for him, no shattered wooden walls, no breached gate, no smoldering clouds of fire. It is a small village, all things said and done, and beyond those wooden walls, even a soul familiar with it would not expect to hear the hustle and bustle of livelihoods being made. However... there is some warning, some omen that he is not to rest next to a hearth with family and friends this night.

Before he is even close enough to hail the vigilants minding the gate, the smell comes of old blood, bile, and rot. His face twisted, hand coming down to brush open his coat and find the familiar handle of his blade. It is a familiar smell, both at home and during the war he returns from. It is not enough to spur him into panic, approaching the gates he hails, but only silence retorts. He listened closely even for the sounds of a battle still ongoing, hearing nothing, only then does his blade free.

Unlike his coat or his pedigree, it is an unusual blade. It is not so much the pattern; the long slightly curved slashing blade was a popular format across many cultures after all- but in its lavish if not ornate design, a pale purple gem sitting above the guardless blade. Where a solid unsharpened spine should be, was a crowning serration of gems of matching color.

He ran to the gate and pulled on it to find it barred and with a curse under his breath, he kicked in one door on the familiar gate, exposing an old flaw; the beam holding it closed exposed through the smallest of gaps. Perhaps he could have run around to another gate, perhaps he could have tried to scale the wall only two men tall made of rough wood. He did not, he brought the blade down on the timber through the small gap, the blade bit deeper than one might expect a hand-a-half sword to in the wood, but still not enough to cleave it in a single stroke.

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He breathed heavily after a few minutes of adrenaline-fueled labor with the beam cut, he pulled open the gate to see his home; a village home to a little over one hundred souls and corpses. His wanderings, shocked and numb as they might be, helped him recreate what happened.

The north was a dangerous land, few past the age of ten were unfamiliar with handling a weapon regardless of gender, and few past fifteen possessed hands unblooded by beast or abomination. It was a wave, in the central roads from where he entered, it was mostly the corpses of the young and the old, and the pregnant... even they had a weapon in hand. The more able hands dead by doorways inside of buildings he... didn't dare check. They held, as long as they could. Further up the northeastern side of town, the proper warriors started to show up... a fighting retreat was held, all sourced towards a chasm rent in the wooden wall.

His wife was among them. No one wanted a woman that couldn't defend their home whilst they were away... seeing her dead near the front lines... brought a bitter smile to his face. She didn't die running or hiding at least. Knowing was its own sort of balm, even if it paled behind the cool numbness of shock.

Even in the ruins of his life, there was work to do. The dead wouldn't burn themself, or pray for themself either. In this work... this labor of finality, did he finally realize something was not right. A wave of abominations wiping out one of the northern villages? It happens... It's tragic, but it happens. However, there were oaths and contracts... pacts to try and prevent this during times of war when their most able warriors are sent to be a officer on behalf of the Kingdom.

For every Northern warrior sent to train and drill, and lead young men to death in the name of king and country, five soldiers were to be dispatched. Soldiers with steel armor, it was in fact one of the major ways the northern villages in their relative isolation kept their ties with the kingdom, as well as fend off inbreeding. It wasn't uncommon for a soldier to retire to a village after finding a wife.

But all of the bodies he gathered were familiar, no steel other than the heads of weapons, or the rare full steel sword. There should have been fifteen here; he and two others left, two others coaxed into staying and founding martial orders under the king... but there were none of the pact-bound soldiers in their place.That was almost double the number of bodies found at the breech missing.

This simple revelation turned it from an unforeseen tragedy into a betrayal. How could one rage at the beasts and abominations that had more claim to this land than they, for staying here? they hungered, they fed. He hated them, certainly, but that was nothing new. What were a hundred more souls to an ongoing war of generations?

The fresh betrayal however served to pry into the cracks of his emotional armor the numbness and shock left him. bile rose in his throat to match the rage and dismay that boiled in his heart. Under that ohh so familiar blue sky, that sun hanging like so many others warmly couched in the lightest of wisps of white clouds, was the silence broken. His cry of hatred and loss hung in the air as much as the smell of death loitering in what was once his home.

In this Anguish, there was resonance; in his pain, there was community. There were a hundred whispers, all too familiar, unheard in the back of his mind. A hundred pleas for salvation, lingering like the stain of blood on the ground swirled around him... and then he spoke.

Perhaps you are wondering why his evocations of words till now have not been detailed. It is simple. It is because of intent, communication, it is something any animal could do, why would you describe the tonality of a cat's meow? Why would you detail the vibrato of a bear's roar? Their existence alone communicates all that needs to be said.

But an Oath? Those are context all of their own, and the oath he spoke could not be understood without its words.

and so from pale trembling lips, did these bleed words onto reality.

"I give you your last oath. the bearers of false promise shall perish. their families will be undone.

Every last son and daughter of every bloodline that had a hand in this will die knowing of the broken oath that brought their end."

sealing this oath by sliding his hand down the blade of his sword, and letting it join his friends and families. Coldness settled in him as he joined his fate to theirs. The maelstrom of lost and anguished souls stilling, closing in as they clung to him in acceptance, and as his blood remaining on that oddly ornate blade disappeared into the steel, he heard a voice. One he had heard before but dismissed.

"We have much work to do."