The Beginning

A rogue warrior by the name of Jurias sits and absorbs the heat of the now blazing fire. He had just hunted down a succulent boar, about 300 shillings of food. His blade sits near by, encrusted and stained in blood from the animal. Very little was known to anyone about Jurias, except for a few people who only knew that he was 24 years of age, and had been alone since the age of about 13. Jurias wore an armor cuirass of heavy stature. Lining the trim of the cuirass appeared to be thin, gold palettes. Running along the center of the breast plate was a gash, extending from the left shoulder and proceeding to the right side of the lower torso. Strapped around his waist is a dark red, glass dagger with mysterious inscriptions on the blade.

 

The year is 1500 B.C. The empires of the world struggle for dominants and land. Countless slaughtered for the sole purpose to follow their lord’s commands, and die for a future that doesn’t benefit them. A plague runs ravage, killing endlessly. Fear engulfs civilians, for they cannot fight an enemy they cannot see. It is for this reason that Jurias became a rogue warrior. He wishes not to be controlled by inherited kings or die by the hands of an unknown enemy. Jurias had just awoken from a light sleep. Ashes of the fire from the previous night rise in the air. Smoke smolders in spiral like swirls, where they quickly disappear. The day is overly warm. The Sun blazes, sending heat waves across the land. A warm breeze ripples through the grass. Broken rubble from crumbling statues of false idles lay waste to fields of grassland.