The Myrrian Crisis

The Myrrian Crisis - Prologue

Prologue - Genocide

Era 2, Year 193

“Archers, ready!,” The fearless old man cried, “Leave NO soldier standing! As they will just as well annihilate us!” He paused for a moment, staring down the Pyrmyrrad army. Even high atop the capital city’s walls, he knew that his own warriors were not invincible, let alone a worthy match.

They were waiting. Waiting. They had all the time in the world, the Pyrmyrrads. Their numbers were staggering, their supplies plentiful. There was only one explanation for their massive army: The utter destruction of Altmyrra.

The old man wiped away a small tear forming in the corner of his eye. He might die, they all might die. But they would fight until the very last breath was taken!

“FIRE! FOR ALTMYRRA!”

There were almost enough arrows to blot out the daylight. They landed upon cold shields and colder flesh, ripping a hole in the enemy’s formation.

And yet, the Pyrmyrrads continued to charge on. The crimson-clad berserkers climbed over the bodies, and sprinted towards the fortress wall. They were followed by a man, hooded and cloaked, who looked to be about 40. His beard was long and flowing, and as black as the night. He took a few steps further towards the fortress and stopped. He spread himself out to shoulder-width. His arms stuck out in front of him, with his hands pressed together in an open-palm manner. He was aiming straight at the wall.

“Take him down! Archers, focus all aim on the Fire Priest!”

As the volley of arrows approached him, he waved his hand across his body. The arrows became mere ash when they hit him.

He grinned and cocked his hands back as a dim orb formed in his palms. He stood still for a short while, chanting and praying, until the orb was large and brilliant. He hurled the massive ball of fire at the wall.

The smell of charred stone and pyroclastic ashes immediately filled the already stale air.

The smoke blinded the soldiers who were lucky to be alive. The sounds of death were clear. More terrifying than the pounding of the deepest war drums.

The sounds of the massacre were becoming ever closer.

Louder.

Louder.

LOUDER.

He then realized it wasn’t just the sounds of the dying... Something else was coming.

“Sire!” a scout panted, “My party and I saw them. It’s the Shinmyrrad Army. They are using flying siege machines.

The king raced out to see the Shinmyrrad armada.

The scout’s word was true. They were long and slender, like the Altmyrrad Navy’s own, but they had a large, rounded sail on the top, somehow allowing them to hover as they hurled enormous, metal balls.

It was over. The king knew it. The innumerable warriors of Pyrmyrra and the advanced technologies of Shinmyrra were closing in on the city of Gust.

The king looked at the young scout and said, “Tell General Khal to evacuate the women and children and bring them to safety. Send them southwest, either Rürmyrra or Geomyrra will protect them.”

“Are you sure about that, sir?”

“Yes. Now go. We’ll keep them back as long as possible.”

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So, tell me what you think!

I will post Chapter 1 shortly!