| STORY DESCRIPTION To win a War, look back. Who wins is merely by a lot of death.
Peace is the hope between heartbeats.
Taelen had been hidden well, even from himself, and the logistics, political, geographical, mixed with those of people who were Myth.
They had hidden whole Nations. The others were Warriors trained to kill, Spellcasters who did kill and rarely had the spray of blood upon them. Taelen mused. How do you rescue your Warriors poisoned by the Mhyst that rules them and Spellcasters, if not all of the other Guilds? Necromancers, we're always partnered with a psychopath.
Now realms and nations wanted allegiances, some myths for children. His best friend and relatives were Wolves who could change from human to Wolf, giving him a headache. There did not seem to be a list of rules with Wolves' the Ravens Nation is as unpredictable as the Wolf Nation. The Dwarves, well, you didn't argue with someone whose axe swing was a deadly aim at ending any reproduction. Then the Elves were more complicated than the runes he deciphered as a Scribe.
The Trolls were a happy passive lot living in H`dn E`rth. They just liked anything blue that glowed hence the problem they had what everyone wanted. Besides peace, everlasting bloody peace blue shiny orbs were a deadly weapon removed from his realm and used in the other realm beyond the Veil. They had had three hundred winters of peace - enough to reestablish populations after the four hundred winters of war that decimated all Nations. Taelen an Imperial Sz`a`Th Scribe, Red Crescent Sahn`Frwh Warrior deadliest of the deadly, unless you were a Silver Crescent. He wondered whose bloody idea it had been to put him down as future prophecy - no one liked a prophecy- a bit like a warning without meaning.
The delicacy of diplomacy was the thinnest of truths, tell a few lies, promise a few allegiances but follow through with blood. And at the top was the Lords and Lady of the Four Elements, he mused the Mhyst being the fifth, yet there were eight by Lore of the Green Man and Lady. More storms, earthquakes, fires and cyclonic weather, and they always met in a Tavern.
Someone said there were seven books he knew were eight, and they were not books; They were people. Psychopaths were always in a war to get peace, and peace is never the quietness one craves after battles and death. Only the broken can mend peace. He wondered how broken did they all need to become.
Prophecies are either hoping or fear, and rather mundane if they were books, and then that moment, the epiphany, and he thought bloody hell if they only knew.
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