From EncyclopAtys
“This is a story I discovered in an old tome of lore, deep inside the archives of Pyr. Back when better diplomatic relations existed between the Kingdoms of Forest and Desert.
Most of the old paper had crumbled with age in the dry air of the desert but fortunately some passages were still legible, their handwriting beautiful. As were the rich illustrations, though faded with time they were.
As far as I am able to tell, these events happened at a time when Pyr was still being carved out of and into the massive old, broken branch the Fyros Refugees had found. Emperor Cerakos, Lycos’ Grandfather, had just declared the Burning Desert his people's home. About 2526-27 I guessed.
At that time able-bodied soldiers and guards were still sparse amongst the newly settled refugees and much of the burning desert was still unexplored. Crude rope-bridges, nowhere near the sturdy constructions of our time, spanned most of its chasms. Though better constructs were being built.
The watchtowers we see today were even fewer and far between or too still under construction. But despite that some brave souls dutifully patrolled the tops of the plateaus to guard the newly budding empire's innermost fiefs and it's just awakening capital.
From all those who swore loyalty to the empire the best were chosen and sent on long, arduous patrols along the canyon, up to the edge of the Frahar Towers beyond Oflovak's Oasis.
Day and night, these men and women were to protect the heart of their kingdom. And so they did.
Their favorite posting was the sparsely overgrown plateau in the middle of the Lawless Canyons, a little southwest of Pyr. There, along with several others within the Imperial Dunes, they also erected one of the first watchtowers, right next to the still rickety bridge, as a place of refuge against the weather and so they could spot enemies from afar. At that time there were only two bridges yet fully established. One over to the Dragon's Spine and the one next to the watchtower that led to Pyr. This made the great camp easier to defend. The bridge across to Canyon Pass would not be completed until much later, when Pyr was firmly established.
Now, one night fate struck its first, terrible blow. A crew of five Fyros and five Fyra had taken up duty on the plateau and admittedly they were a bit bored. However, as they say in the desert, “Even a bored Fyros is still more alert than a lively Tryker.” What exactly is meant by that, everyone should decide for himself.
Some of these brave sentinels were standing in front of the tower while others were walking patrols across the small, sandy plain. Not a breath of air stirred. The air was chill and from the depths of the ravines around them rose the smell of burning wood and scorched carcasses. Not particularly pleasant, but one of them said it reminded him of his mother-in-law's cooking. Which at least elicited a smile from most of the hard-boiled fighters. Even though their companion never got tired of this joke. In loose formation, immersed in friendly banter, the heavily armed men and women walked along the cliffs toward the bridge. Its shape was far from being as it is today. More like a patchwork of beams and struts that swayed precariously when the wind picked up.
As they approached the bridge on the far side of their post, they spied shadows between the wooden struts and weren't sure what this meant. There, slowly and cautiously, a few Homins moved toward their position.
Alert, they strode out and reached the rise to the bridge.
— “Oi! Oren Pyr! Who goes there?!” the most senior of them shouted.
The shadows hesitated for a moment, but then they came closer.
— “Oren Pyr, Homin. We are wanderers who saw your light in the distance and hoped to get a drink of water and some rest from the long journey.”
A broad-shouldered, tall Fyros stepped into the glow of the torch. His armor was stained and full of nicks and scratches. His weapons seemed as worn as he was, but still in good condition. His tan face was weathered and hard. None of the sentinels recognized the tattoos on the muscular stranger's face, but this was nothing new, as refugees from the Old Lands arrived daily.
— “Have you come from exile?” the captain of the guard asked the stranger, who eyed his opposite with an appraising look.
— “Yes, from exile. For a long time we sought a way to a land without Kitin. And though there are some here, there are fewer than in the wasteland out there, or in the lands of shame.”
The captain had already heard many different stories from newly arrived exiles and thus he was only a little surprised by the man's choice of words.
— “Well, then, come with us. We will lead you to our main camp. The Emperor will be pleased to welcome such mighty warriors who have conquered the wilderness alone.”
The burly Fyros turned briefly and nodded to his five companions, who were still outside the torchlight. Then he smiled at the captain and spoke:
— “It will be a pleasure to meet the Emperor.”
Together, the two groups set out. In the distance, they could see the lights of the great camp where Pyr would one day be built. In front of them, the silhouette of the watchtower loomed darkly before the night sky.
Once there, the other five Guardsmen approached the visitors.
— “Oren Pyr, Fyros. What brings you here?”
— “Is that all of them squatting there in the tower?” came the burly Fyros’ reply.
— “Yes, we are just a small group of honorable defenders of our future capital. But as Fyros we are more than a match for any intruders who dare to come here seeking war.”, the sentinel replied companionably.
— “We’ll see.”
The man smiled coldly, then barked an order in a strange language, drew a wicked sword from his belt and charged the captain. Suddenly a battle ensued, such as the sentinels had not experienced for a long time. Their attackers fought viciously and hard. In the dim light of the few lamps that lit the tower more of them could now be seen rushing across the makeshift bridge from the direction of Thesos. Within a few minutes, three of the defenders had fallen victim to the bandits' swords. The remaining seven fought desperately against the superior force. A brave Fyra managed to climb the tower and blow the horn that was hanging there for just that purpose. Its mournful sound echoed through the cold night until an arrow found her breast and ended the plaintive sound. Soon though her desperate call was answered from the main camp.
The soldiers of Fyros took up arms now and came running over the bridge, hastening to see what the alarm was all about. Just as the reinforcements arrived they saw the last of their comrades fall. Full of rage and with all the courage a Fyros can muster, they threw themselves at the attackers, who matched them in numbers and strength. The battle was fierce and lasted until the sun crested the far cliffs to the south. Only a few of the defenders survived, but they took care to lay their brothers and sisters to rest with honor and gratitude. For they had given their lives to protect the newly founded empire.
That night, the fledgling new Empire of the Desert fought its first true battle against an enemy that would later come back to haunt them again and again.
For on the armor of the fallen attackers was found an engraved emblem.
A black Varinx.
And even though the plateau was a gruesome sight in the morning, the battlefield soaked in the blood of the fallen, the Fyros people drew hope from this victory. For where the blood of their heroes had soaked the ground, strange trees began to sprout a few days later. Trees the likes of which no one had ever seen before and which grew only upon this lone plateau in the middle of the desert.
And so today it is said that the trees of this luminous forest are the souls of fallen heroes. Still going about their duty, as the sentinels of Pyr.
