Once upon a time, there was nothing. And then there was the Light. The shining light of unique minds, fun and creativity shone upon the lands of Graal, glistening. But as all things exist, conflict happens.
Long live Sparis! they may cry. Long live Renecus! they may cry. The name doesn't matter, neither does their intentions nor their goals or leaders. Behind the mask of these small, hope inducing phrases, mean one simple one-
Praise be to the darkness. They are the embracers of the darkness, the reapers and demonic forces of the weary, of the dead. The legions of the dead slowly march behind, carrying the war mongering banner.
And now, there is nothing. Leadership is a burden, you may say. Now stick that phrase up your ass, because leadership wasn't meant to be a burden-it was meant for order. The order of the reapers and the demonic forces of the weary and the dead itself, implements paranoia.
And later, we shine. The Guardians of the Allied will fight the incoming Darkness, embracing the warm light. The Holy Allied Armies will fight, without question, the forces of the dead. Why embrace Auel, who left you so many times?
You follow a false god. Auel is not your god. The Will of the Light is not your god, but rather a way of living. You carry the actions of living every day, recruit. Train. Fight. You are the empty shells of once vibrant souls.
But the Light and it's Saints, it's Oracles, are here. Why? For fun. For hope that maybe, the Saint and his Oracles can keep you hanging on. We will teach you. We will forgive you. Loyalty is dead. Chivalry is dead. Hope is dead. But we are fighting the legions of the dead, so why can't traits come back as they did?
The Saints are coming, to help. Their former selves have been stripped. They care not about the result of no war or battle, but of the soul. We are the doctors.
The Oracles are coming, to guide. They sparkle in the word of the Light. They will give you advice, predetermined, informed by the will of the Light. We are the prophets.
War machines and battle lies. The pound of death drowning out our sighs. With the Light, our tortured souls arise, purifed and cured in His eyes.