Guardians of the Borderlands.

A heavy mist had fallen over the valley and a thick snow buries the grass beneath the feet of five weary travellers. A more than gentle wind billows over a vast expanse of open space between the mountains that peaked jaggedly against the quicksilver sky. A soft scattering of footprints follows the travellers as they stamped across the untamed wild of the mountains of Diggajōṁ kē Dānta.
The five travellers were the last of an ancient race of men and women whom had once ruled brilliantly glowing cities in deep valleys, much like this one. The small line of once powerful people contains three warriors and the people who had once sat upon the thrones in the great spires of their castles. The man at the head of the group, the eldest son of Grímdain Holygold and the leader of the once mighty armies that had once guarded the lost cities of ages ago.
A youngish, rugged looking man materialized from the tree fringe, breathless. One arm hung loosely at his side, completely useless. His features creased in pain as he spoke in a hoarse whisper, “Sire...through the forest. Hurry. Please.”
His eyes dimmed and he fell to his knees.
The three warriors let their hands befall their sheathed swords as they looked over the worn man before them The head of the three stepped forward and grabbed the man off of his knees, lifting him partially to his feet as he studied his armor closely.
It was not like what he’d seen in their enemies in battles past. The breastplate was that of a shining metal he hadn’t seen in ages, laying like scales overtop one another. His helmet was a dull greenish color, worn from having seen much battle that lay close to his skull, coming to a soft, gradual point down, just below the nape of his neck. The crest of a faraway land rested on the breast of the torn and tattered cloak he bears.
The young man whimpered, unable to withstand the slightest pressure upon his weakened knees. He thought back to his family. Everything he had ever known. It was all slipping away. Ever so quickly, slipping. Every memory, every thought, he was consumed by complete darkness and rage. Rage for whatever had begun inside him. The impenetrable fog of forgotten dreams became thicker and thicker still as the bluish grey of his irises became a milk white, his brows knitting together tightly. There was no more pain, no more anything. Just darkness and complete oblivion.
The man fell, limp in the warrior’s arms. He’d seen death many times and had far too many of his soldiers die in his arms,
“We must go.” The man turned back to the others before laying the young man by his feet. The rulers nodded to him and they continued on toward the deep, dark woodlands their messenger came from.
The forest floor was not so snow covered as out in the open, the trees catching most of the falling flakes before they managed to reach their roots. The forest was something to marvel at, filled with thick, strong, oaks that had been twisted and bent by the mountains’ mighty winds, even in the protection of others trees are still felled over small brooklets and streams that run thick with more than water and more than snow.
The rulers whom the warriors are guarding were those from the Northern Mountains. They were a fair race, with soft, black hair and brilliant eyes, the colors of the algae that grows in pools along the mountain passes. The race had been known only as the Grønøyne which in a distant, ancient tongue means “Green eyes”. The family which our travellers belongs to is that of the Pr̥thvīsitārā, a family which had reigned over the mountains which they stepped upon currently.
Two of the five men were of a different tribe, the Gythendæl; Borderers from the Northlands who were known to be craftsmen, hunters, and farmers. One man was of average height and relatively stocky build with unruly chestnut locks and sea colored eyes that were prismed like shards of shattered ice. As typical to the people of the Borders, he wore a plaid, kilt like sash and heavy fur jacket. Over one sinewy shoulder was slung a massive longbow and quiver of red-flighted arrows tipped with shards of iron. His fingers pressed a small book to his chest, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his chapped lips.
“I will return, my little theondrea. Dennae fret,” he kissed the binding, softly, tears blurring the ink upon the yellowed pages, “I will return.”
The other warrior was a man of middle twenties, young though his scarred face had seen much battle. His softer features lead many to believe he was of elvish descent, although they would be wrong. His ears were rounded and his eyes and ears not so acute as theirs. His flaxen hair is tangled and matted beneath a chipped and scarred helmet of black steel and his weary eyes of a soft, burnt, brown that are wind beaten and dusted with the steady weariness of battle. He went by the name of Notleigh and had hailed from the same village as the Gythendæl fellow did.
“Mæthryl,” Gythendæl said, gingerly tucking the tiny volume into his fur-lined pocket, his heavy Border accent thicker due to his volume, “Where away is the wind? I cannae feel a thing with these dashed gloves on,” he stripped the thick leather hide from his hands, “My head says the north, and if I’m correct, we’re in for a nasty storm. Not one I have a mind in stayin’ in the middle of, ye ken?”
“I can’t say.” He pulled the heavy helmet from his head to reveal a long, ragged scar tracing a line from the center of his forehead over his right brow and down on the upper mound of his cheekbone, “Although I feel you may be right.” The accent his counterpart so bares is lessened on his own tongue from his many travels through the lands near and far.
The leader of the five of them walks up between them and on to a tall root, which peaks up like a great mountain over the five of them,
“What do you say, Jarek?” Mæthryl set himself down on a strong, wide root of a tree, watching their leader as he scouted out before them, “D’you think the storm will hit tonight?” With a slightly less serious air he smiles at his Borderland counterpart and waits as the royalty they were guarding caught up with them, leaning against the trees in an eery, almost threatening silence.
“I say that there should not be so much chatter when the enemy is so near.” With a harsh tone and a menacing glance he reached for his sword to warn Mæthryl and Bhàtair, as his name was, of what he had seen just over the root ahead. The two of them disregard the equipment they had been holding before and lay their hands upon the hilts of their blades, encircling the Grønøynes with deadly intent to keep whatever beasts may be lurking ahead of them, away from the royal family.
Bhàtair’s bright eyes darted about the darkened landscape, observing everything he could within a short second before whispering to his companion through gritted teeth, “We’re outnumbered twenty to one. Now, do as I say, and donnae argue, understood?” he waited for the younger to give him a curt nod of agreement before continuing, “Take the family on the south path,” his voice wavered slightly, “And take this. Give it to my little Bythe and tell her I won’t be coming home,” he slipped the little book into Mæthryl’s hand, “Go. Quickly.”
Not wanting to believe him, Mæthryl took a moment to look at the book and shook his head before being pushed back to the royals.
“Bhàtair, I-I can’t.” With another harsh shove and a loud shout from the older man’s throat, Mæthryl took the pair of royals and beckoned they follow him. He took them back toward where they had been walking before, only turning just before reaching the open mountain air, onto a hidden path known only to the locals who had lived in the area for many years.
There was a sound in the distance of a battalion of orcs sending up a battle cry that pierced the air like a rotting, iron arrow. A scream was high in tone and bloody in nature, sending a grown man’s hair on end with the first note.
“Your highness!” Mæthryl took hold of the queen’s hand as she stumbled on a loose rock near the beginning of the trail. He and the king both grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet. She was a beautiful woman with a slender face and a kind, smiling mouth that even smiled as she was frightened, in the most slightest of ways.
But now was not a time to be smiling. Behind them Mæthryl heard the clanging and clattering of blades on armor and numerous screams of the brutal beasts which had begun the assault. And then there was a sound Mæthryl had never wanted to hear, the sharp, pained cry of a man. He couldn’t help but stop and turn toward where the sound had emanated from. The orcs let out one last victorious screech before a single blade sliced through the skin and bone of his partner.
With heavy breath and heart Mæthryl looked away from the sound and clenched his eyes tight as he lead his king and queen through the thick trees and brush that covered the forest floor.
Bhàtair’s claymore blade scythed in a deadly arc across the neck of a foe, the Borderer’s eyes wild with battlelight. His breastplate fell apart in two, exposing his chest. He quickly drew his small round shield called a buckler and held it aloft in front of the vulnerable area, momentarily leaving his back open for attack. He felt the bite of cold steel against his spine, a trickle of crimson beginning to work its way out of the corner of his lips. Bhàtair spun around, dispatching the attacker with one swipe that cleaved from it from ear to neck. Then everything turned red. His breath cut short as he looked down, blood staining his linen shirt. He raised his prismed eyes to the heavens, words of despair hovering upon his lips before he dropped to his knees, drawing his bow and setting an arrow in the string.
“Vinganza, Xustiza e Paz!” he breathed, firing the shaft into his final enemy, the warmth leaving his body, “Goodbye.”
The three companions crossed through the forest, unseen by their foes as their feet ran swiftly upon the untrodden earth.
At sundown the king bade them stop for the night, having been travelling for many days and many nights to their destination of the Burāvulpha Śōrsa, a black sanded shore on the bay of the Western Kingdoms.
As Mæthryl started about, removing his armor so he was standing before the Grønøynes in his plain clothes, they began to set up a meager camp in the divots created by the tree’s roots that riddled the damp, cold earth. The night had grown dark alarmingly quick, the sky blacking out almost completely save for a few twinkling stars and the bright shimmering saucer of a moon that hung heavily in the black expanses that swallowed the day without remorse.
With the many more miles they had to travel the stop was well worth it. And it was enough to let some of the pain of his loss wash off of Mæthryl. He’d started a fire, lighting a bundle of small twigs for the kindling and bringing in some bigger more harshly burning logs and leaves. Mæthryl sat by the fire, warming his hands over the small flame with hope of discretion from the nearby orc pack. As he stared into the fire he reached into his pocket and retrieved the small, leather bound booklet his partner had given him, running a hand carefully over the smooth caramel colored cowhide that encased the soft, yellowed pages. It was what one could call a log, or a diary in which he would write about all the beautiful things they’d seen in their travels throughout the lands. He’d kept track of them, just for his young daughter. Mæthryl opened the book to the first creamy yellow page to reveal what Bhàtair had called his adventures. In an old written language meaning Guardians of the Borderlands; Sīmā kē Rakhavālōṁ.