Tales of Orryumu

When Fire Fell (Part 1)

No one knows,

Why heaven fell,

The Factories were spewing their wastes into the air,

Even the great arks did not cease venturing to the stars,

The Tower stood in defiance to the mountains,

Our planet was rotting, our minds ignorant,

So the Gods came,

Wielding Light and Staff,

Served a terrible judgement,

Holy fire engulfed the world,

For seven days they roamed,

Their stone corpses lie still,

Echoes of a violent end.

- Lamentation from the Chronicles

Capital City of Imperium, Kingdom of Xathanus, 1500 leagues east of the Sea of Corruption

Orryumu walked the busy, dusty streets of the city he called home, with little on his mind other than some errands for the day. That is the nature of noblemen, always occupied, especially the ones nearing the age of manhood.

Now Orryumu was acquainted by many in the city, especially among the merchants, as he was fond of their tales from the distant lands westward. Being of the House of Ryusono, he was well respected, mostly in part to that overly exalted family name. His forefathers were popular explorers, warriors, scientists, scholars, holy men, and chief advisors to the king.

Being a direct descendent of the great General Sathepro, who led the Xathanian forces to repel the invading Seson Doroks during the Great Fire War centuries ago was no small piece of family history, as Sathepro's helmet and sword are rumored to be sealed underneath the Chamber of the Kings in the Royal Temple. A mighty burden, yet, it has never shaken him.

That was not the case for the young ladies at the sundowner parties however, where every inch of his face was exalted. Green eyes, with the same fire of his warlord ancestors, hair the color of ripe autumn grain, cut into bangs. He wore his usual blue coat, embroidered in silver and gold patches. Ancient spells for luck and protection were scrawled across his sleeves. It was a gift from his uncle. A ceramic longsword rested at his side, swinging as his boots thudded on the dirt.

It always amused him how his friends and kin fused over his lineage. If only they treated him as a common man like the artisans or serfs.

"Morning, Master Orryumu!" hollered an ample baker with a leather apron stained with powdery white. He was unshaven, a common trait among the working class.

The young man nodded in his direction, and continued his stroll on the bustling streets.

Merchants and sellers have set up their booths in the shadow of the citadel, hollering out prices along with the stentorian cries of bidders who responded. The summer sun bore fiercely on the square, with gusts of wind kicking up the dust into billowing waves.

Orryumu hastily scurried out of the market district into the chapel of the far quieter artisan district. Here, master and apprentice alike hammered, molded, weaved, tied, sowed, and sharpened ever so tirelessly like an old engine from the days of the Ancients. Around these parts, even that craft survived...

The young noble finally reached his destination. The huge, cube shaped building that overshadowed the block was the headquarters of the Royal Blacksmith Co.