A Mage Under the Dying Sun is a stand-alone piece started by SpodermanAlwaysCan, though was soon abandoned and left to be finished by another user.
Nearly a century of war, of bickering between the uptight of each nation that has led to much death. So much so that the sickening smell of rotting flesh seeps through the sand I walk on today, and that I can't bear to think that I was it's cause. The ruins of any rebellion, or empire, or anything that stood in the way laying in my hand as gravel and soot. It is terrible to think, in any regard, that a nation as peaceful as the Order could be the source of the land's hardships, but like everything else in history, it was.
I remember when people like Griffon or the Elites of Westwind stood as guardians and lords of their land... or when the Spearton legion were more than petty political pushes for anything the corrupt market would put their faces on... or when I was still willing to cope with their immaturity. But of course, that was long ago, and now I can't stand to look into the face of the demon that runs it now...
Yes, it was the end of the Medusa era, as a Spearton finally shoved his blade deep into that wicked beast's heart, and the army advanced towards a new chapter for the Order. What a glorious triumph it was. The marketplace, the homes, every street was lined with civilians celebrating the defeat of the evil Medusa's army, with newspapers clogging the streets, and fancily done alcohol concoctions stewing among every bar in the region. The survivors of the encounter, twenty-four in number, rode through the towns in golden chariots, listening with pride as their names were chanted among the crowds. Only until the death of Lord Midra would they learn that this would be their last celebration of good times, and the ceremony bringing a new ruler to the Order.
The very same day that Lord Midra clung to his last breath and passed in that cot was the day of the ceremony to elect their new Order ruler. The glass panes of the palace had let light seep through into the otherwise grim atmosphere, and the marble floor tidied to perfect condition. Each noble sat upright, holding their stance to meet their body language quota. The palace sat in complete silence, only occasionally broken by the entering of new guests. Slowly, the seats began to fill, and soon the entire room would be filled with their grieving nobles and sons in line for the throne. I leaned near the entrance of the building, quietly conversing with the guards while the General slowly paced up to the podium, organizing loose papers before he began to speak. Everything suddenly ceased, no sound, no movement, nothing from the audience as the General passionately spoke. I remember his words clearly.
" As you all know, our Lord Midra, our savior, has passed..." He shifted with unease, " ...But this unfortunate event will lead to the voting of our new hero, someone to rise from the family tree to keep our land in order. Never let Lord Midra be forgotten, for his quick death should never outshine his long legacy. It is time to accept this passing as a sign to continue our journey-as a nation, of course, but more importantly as a family. So I, and our loving and caring committee members would like to let the election... begin."
As the names of possible heirs were listed, I couldn't help but feel a certain level of discomfort as I glanced at their snarky, selfish faces as they were called by the General. Such evil things, the worst of the kingdom being called as they rose from their seats and performed their heroic gestures, much to the audience's pleasure. After brief descriptions of the six siblings' feats and qualities, the General had pulled himself back into the Committee room behind the podium, closing the door quietly, leaving the room to stir.
Snickers, chuckles, and quiet comments squeaked throughout the palace as the time ticked past, and what must've been a dozen minutes later the General returned to the crowd. There, in that same grieving, disappointed voice, he announced that Milab Cornel was the new ruler, a spoiled son of Midra. He was not even in his late teens, but all knew of his riches and wealth, and knew that he was the least dangerous option of the bunch. The ceremony ended, with little applause, as the bright moon pulled into the evening, and the darkness of dusk covered the sky.
But I'm not here to recite as if I was reading but a passage from my journal. I'm not here to tell of a great struggle between good versus evil. No. There is all horror and death to be told, but lack there any bright ending or celebration... that is for a story without honor. These words have been painted with the blood of many, and the living in the few.
This is the story of the Order.
Dawn poured into the open darkness around us, calling for the community's liveliness.
Very short, yes, but it is not finished, very sorry, will be done soon