Writing tales to tell it true and hope that in the telling some peace may be found, some exorcism of the soul that releases pent up dreams and desires that we did not know we harbored. Swords and swearing, the mud and the blood and the tears, full plate armor and spells crashing down from overhead, mounts screaming and rearing as swords clash and flash and the world shakes and shudders and stills. The pounding of hoofs on dirt roads, rain percolating down through the leaves, the snap and pop of a green twigged fire, forms huddled about for psychological comfort if not true warmth.

Missions executed without hope, evils more ancient than time itself, the need to conquer, the desire to fill the void with domination so as to gain an illusion of immortality. Sounds of battle echoing off cliff walls as the tide surges ever higher, washed pink with blood. Councils held in mage towers along the broken coast, bearded faces furrowed with fear and consternation as portents are considered and discarded. Youths dreaming of war, youths dreaming of glory, youth shattering on the hard rocks of reality as leather armor and old spears fall before the awful power of mounted knights in ebon armor.