In a time long before the Temple Wars. A time when Atys was young and the rivalry between Kami and Karavan had not yet led to many open conflicts. There lived two Homins of different people. Fyros and in Matis, but their fates were unchangeably interwoven.

    In the sunburned empire of the Fyros lived Maidakka Bynx, she was a faithful and honorable servant of the empire.
She loved her people and served the Kami with devotion and passion.
She had gained fame in many battles and the emperor himself had decorated her for her bravery and courage.
But something saddened Maidakka, she could not find a suitable man.
Many warriors of her people had already offered her sacrifices and laid treasures at her feet to elicit even a benevolent smile from her.
But all this pompous behavior did not interest her.
They were all too crude and vulgar for her.
For even though she was a great warrior, she hated to show off her deeds or to boast of them to bathe in fleeting glory.
Which was the order of the day among the men of her people.
And yet she longed for a companion.
In her desperation she sought out an old seeress deep in the desert and asked her for advice.

    Inside the gloom of the small hut, the ancient woman whose skin reminded Maidakka of the oldest, driest trees she had seen, spoke in a smoke-clouded voice:
Child of war.
You will find your husband. From the blue shadows a white artist will come and conquer your heart in battle.
But be careful, child.
For if you give your heart, it will be forever.
And you must decide if the price is worth it.
    The Warrior rose angrily before the old woman:
A prize? What kind of price? And how could an artist defeat me in battle?
Blue shadows? Tell me, old one, what does that mean?
    But the ancient visionary had already sunken back onto her divan and was drawing rattling breaths in a deep, magical sleep.

    Confused and a little angry, Maidakka left the near crumbling hut and stepped out into the sun-drenched plain.
As her gaze slid across the land, she noticed that hardly a shadow was visible.
So she swore that from now on she would only fight during the day.
When the sun banished every shadow from the desert, whether blue or black.
She would train even harder, for she would not make it too easy for any man to defeat her and win her heart.

    At the same time, surrounded by giant trees as old as the world, a great warrior lived in the realm of Matia.
His name was Varro Saidinno.
He was honorable and skilful like no other in handling a variety of weapons.
However, his true passion was the art of weapon making and especially the lethal, elegant one-handed sword.
Like all Matis, he carried within him an interest in using the materials and plants of his homeworld for the benefit of his people.
But like few Matis of his time, he had acquired the richest knowledge of his craft.
His swords were the best far and wide and high prices were offered to acquire one of his masterpieces.
The nobility of the country coveted his favor. The men courted his swords, the ladies courted his heart.
But Varro was so engrossed in his work that he did not find the time to go looking for a bride, and he was not interested in the advances of the flighty ladies and nobles.
They did not appreciate what he did and what he gave to bring his weapons to perfection.
He lived for his craft and the passion of the fight.
But something gnawed at him, leaving him unable to sleep at night, haunting his dreams as no wild beast of the woods could.
Although all his works were considered wonderful and solid in their quality, in his own mind he had never created a true masterpiece.
All his weapons were dead things. Although a living hand wielded the sword, the sword itself was unable to help it.
Varro dreamed that one day he would create a sword that was alive and obeyed the wishes of its master.
That would support the fight and do its part for victory.

So time went by.
Maidakka fought with many men and no one ever defeated her and no one stepped out of the shadows to conquer her heart.
Varro learned more and more about the materials that were found in the world and learned more and more about the struggle and the spirit of the plants.
But he never succeeded in creating a true masterpiece.

One day, fate took its course.
Deep in the roots of Atys, fibers and woods had been discovered that no homin had ever seen before.
A group of explorers from the Capital was sent out to secure these valuable resources for the Empire.
A contingent of warriors was given to them to protect them from the beasts of the deep.
Maidakka was among them.

    Varro had also heard of these wondrous materials.
He knew and used many of the woods found in the primeval roots and the sap there was of incomparable quality.
His own best armor was made of it and so the news of new materials made his heart beat faster.
Would he find here what he had been looking for so long?
He ran to the palace as fast as he could and volunteered for a research mission.

    Two giant Vorax had attacked the group out of a thicket of big Jubla trees and many of the men and women were frozen in fear as the two beasts roared their way onto the expedition.
The warriors and magi managed to fend off the lizards only with great difficulty and three of them found death.
Their guide pushed the group further, however, because the rare materials could only be found at certain times under very specific circumstances.

    Furious and intoxicated by the battle at the same time, Maidakka ran further into the greenish-blue twilight of the primordial roots, constantly keeping an eye on her surroundings.
She could not resist a strange feeling, as if fate was resting on her shoulders like an invisible demon gnawing at her thoughts.
"Careful, there is someone at the site." the guide hissed between clenched teeth and pointed ahead.
And indeed, there were some slender figures there, busy mining the precious materials.
— These damn pale-noses are taking everything away from us! How did the damn Matis know about it?!"someone spat.
— How the fuck do I know? came the angry answer, But I'll be damned if we're going to let them dig up the treasures just like that!

    Quickly the first warriors rose from the underbrush and with wild screams pounced on the enemy.
Maidakka wanted to call them to their senses, but it was too late.
The surprised matis dropped their hoes and lifted swords and axes in their place and defended themselves as best they could.
Within a few moments, a fierce battle broke out over the precious materials.
Maidakka threw herself into the fight and struck down the first Matis who stormed towards her with a single stroke.

    About half a day ago Varros' expedition had arrived and set up camp.
He had moved away from the group to search for good resources on his own.
The master-craftsman wanted to be undisturbed in his work.
He had all instruments and the best of his materials with him to combine them with the wonderful new things he had found.
And now he was sitting concentrated bent over an almost finished sword in a quiet little niche in the cavern wall.
Shouts echoed through the darkness.
Just as he was about to put the finishing touches on the new sword, the battle began not far from him.
With the new, still unfinished sword firmly in his hand, he ran through the dim, hazy cave to the aid of his comrades.

    Maidakka turned and dogged, parried and blocked, ducked away under deadly blows and herself handed out death with full hands.
"What a senseless fight," she thought to herself, "and only triggered again by the pride, greed and battle-lust of men.
Behind her, quick steps approached, carried by the echo of a narrow niche that gaped a little way off in the wall.
Ghostly, bluish haze blew around in it, only deepening the darkness of the shadows.
Then a shimmering figure emerged from the mossy opening.
Dressed in the white, light armor of Matis, a long sword raised in a challenging manner and pale, determined face turned to her.
For a moment Maidakka paused. Were her senses playing a trick on her?
The words of the old seer flew through her mind like a ghostly echo.
But her opponent was already near.
Skilfully he led his sword down on her in a wide arc and only with difficulty she could avoid the blow.
Afterwards she attacked but the Matis turned away from her blade as if it was made of soft grass that bent in the wind.
Now it was his turn again and he stabbed fiercely, in the direction of her heart. With extreme force she parried the thrust and countered.

    The opponents danced around each other cut, thrust, riposte, parry. None was able to stand up to the other.
He dances like the hot wind over the desert, it shot through Maidakkas head.
She fights like an Ocyx, wild and determined. - I wouldn't be surprised if she spat fire thought Varro.

    All of a sudden, they let go of each other.
They stood opposite each other.
Stared at each other.
Silence had fallen around them.
All their comrades were dead.
Only they were still alive.
Breathing heavily, they lowered their weapons and were both barely able to stand on their feet.
The white artist! How beautiful he is.
    As if his sword had found its target after all, pain drove through the heart of the Fyra. The nobly pale skin of this man, his upright yet strong posture, his graceful way of wielding the sword, almost like a dance.
The fire of irrepressible love raged through the warrior's heart.
    And Varro's heart also seemed to freeze in awe for a moment.
Here was a woman who loved battle as much as he did, who had mastered the art of weaponry of her people to perfection. Who was his equal or even superior.
Silently the two opponents stood opposite each other. Each caught in his thoughts concerning the other.
For an eternal moment they stood like this ...
    Then one of the badly wounded Matis raised his head from the blood-soaked moss bed of the ground. Pain and hatred clouded his senses as he got up on his knees and thrust out his sword one last time.
    Maidakka gazed in wonder at the blade sticking out of her chest. Mortality wounded, she collapsed. Varro took a quick step forward and caught her in his arms. Her blood spilled over his clothes and the newly made, now battle-tested sword.
— Maidakka, your time has come!, a soft, deep voice everywhere and nowhere around her, inside her.
— No, it can't be! I have just found my happiness. I don't want to die.
— My child, everyone must die. Your seed is destroyed. Your time has come. Now come to me.
— No, I beg you, great Ma'Duk! Don't let me die, just when my life found meaning! I love him, more than myself! More than the fight! More than my people!
— Heed your words, child of the desert. You will come to me as it must be!
— NO!! I renounce you, cruel God who will take me from my beloved!, unrestrained rage cursed through Maidakka's soul.
— You love a servant of the false goddess more than yourself, battle and your people?! You dare to renounce me in death?!! The voice of the god thundered down on Maidakka's soul.
— YES! she shouted with all her might.
— So be it! So you shall be with your beloved!
— As long as he lives and after his death you shall be an instrument of death even in death!
— But you shall experience the joys of battle only when you kill those whom you have loved!

    An irrepressible pain tore through the wrathful soul of the Fyra.

    Varro knelt in the damp moss of the primordial roots and held the dying body of his beloved homin in bloodstained arms.
For a long time he cried for her and around him even the beasts of the underworld were silent, as if a god had ordered them to do so.
Eventually he stood up and began to clean the Fyras body.
He looked around. - So much senseless death.
He would give a dignified farewell to all the warriors who died here today, even if it would take days.
Then he became aware of a new, soft bubbling sound. It sounded a bit like drops falling into water. He looked around and became aware of his newly made sword.
It lay beside the warrior's body. Its blade in a pool of her blood.
Green drops of Sap mixed with the warrior's lifeblood, which slowly but steadily disappeared into the sword.


He had done it. The sword lived and drank the blood of its victims.
Varro picked up the weapon.
It snuggled into his hand, as if it wanted to be close to him.
He made a few strokes through the stuffy air, filled with the smell of death, and the blade sliced it with a sound like a lover's sigh.
As he thrust the sword into the soft ground, a shiver went through the blade.
Like a body under the caress of a lover.
But Varro found no joy in it.
He had lost the love of his life to blind hate and greed.
As long as he lived, he would never again raise his hand in battle against a homin.

    When Varro finally did his lonely and sad work and buried the bodies of the fallen, it was as if he could hear the falling of tears at his side where the new blade rested.

    A soft, painful crying.