During the darkness of the Great War against the invading evil, the people of the land were tossed into turmoil and uncertainty. From fallen men on the field arose songs and sagas, legacies and legends.

Here is but one of many.

It was hot.

So hot, that even the great Lord Iyan Moragon himself deigned to dismount—though he was the last man to do so—and led his long suffering steed across the blistering plains. He surveyed his troops; most had removed their heaviest pieces of armor, but that offered no relief from the searing heat. Iyan looked up at the unnatural sun…he could not remember it ever being this hot.

“It's a demon sun, surely, my lord,” the man next to Iyan tentatively offered when he saw his commander tilt his gaze to the sky.

“I must agree, Brov,” Moragon replied shortly. He never turned to look at his second in command. Encouraged by his lord's remark, Brov continued.

“We will need to restock our water soon, and we are still a good three days away from Garwyn's stronghold.” Iyan remained silent; Brov quickly looked away and held his breath.

Iyan Moragon, 16th Lord of Castle Coramire, had a temper hotter than the sun under which he now—against his will—found himself. Cruel, cunning, calculating, self-serving, sinister, ruthless, relentless—all words used variously in connection with his name. Moragon preferred to rule with an iron fist in a barbed glove. Fear, not favoritism, would keep his subjects in line. This policy seemed to be working; his reign as the Lord of Coramire was longer than any of his fifteen ancestors. Iyan ascended to the seat of power upon the assassination of his father. Iyan knew of the plot, but he allowed it to continue. Moragon considered his father a fool—too kind and too trusting, thus too weak to rule. It was his own noblemen who murdered him. Made wealthy by the lord's generosity, the nobles grew greedy. Iyan crushed them while his father's blood still dripped from their swords. The people thought they had an avenging angel in Iyan. They soon discovered just how wrong they were.

“Do you see an imbecile before you, Brov?” Iyan began, a slow rumble forming deep in his throat. The men around them hastened their lagging gait and shifted away from the pair of men who had come to a halt. “Or did you think I had suddenly gone blind?”

“N-no, no, my lord,” Brov stammered as he whispered the words, his head bowed, chin resting on his chest. He stared at the dried grass trampled beneath Moragon's feet—he knew how it felt.

“Then will you tell me WHY you sensed a need to point out to me the misery of our damned situation!?” The timbre of his voice rose, as did his anger, spooking several of the horses—and the men. Brov stood motionless in silence. There was nothing he could say, nor anything he was willing to say, in his defense that would satisfy his master. “Why the hell are we out in this god-forsaken wasteland to begin with?” he yelled with a sweep of his arm. He looked around at the desolation—and the men who had now stopped and stared at him. “Since Brov has declared me a simpleton, who will tell me what we are doing out here?” Brov flinched as he tensed his lean muscles even tighter, his face flushing red from either anger or humiliation; even he could not be sure which emotion it was. Iyan continued, “As I have the mind of a child, maybe I should have a child explain it to me…You!” he boomed, pointing to a small sandy-haired boy within the ranks. “Young squire, pray enlighten your liege lord,” he mocked.