It was a night in the year 730.

An argument broke out in a manor house.

‘We won't have this, you violent father!

- Then leave my house, you outcasts!’

Two teenagers leave the family home,

In the rain and the storm, announcing their doom.

Twenty winters ago,

In a village now turned to dust,

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The peasants lived through an attack by virulent cattle.

Here, these animals have nothing to envy those of your popular beliefs.

Here, their horns are sharp and their mouths spit fiery projectiles.

‘We're finished! Our village will perish like all the others!

- Peasants, line up! We won't end up as spelt!’

The poor men took up their positions.

One charge was enough to break their spirit and their determination.

‘But who can save us?

- Are we finished?

- Fear not, I am with you.'

From the depths of the village, he illuminated

Straw houses and small pastures.

His muscular frame was like a mountain.

He faced the raging bovine army.

And with a movement that would make you shudder,

he shot their leader in the head.

The others became docile towards him.

The hero had just reclaimed a savage army.

And while his silhouette seemed to take up every part

Horizon, he exclaimed:

‘Today, I announce the creation of my Empire. Tarshkila will extend wherever the eye can see, our dominators will become partners or perish!’

Tarshkila