Inherent

War comes early to the people of Quida, early in the year, before the snows melt, early in life, before the voice deepens. War comes early to the people of Quida, and leaves late.

The Priestess of Quida has seen such wars as this one before. A nameless host sweeps out of the southern deserts, inhuman man-creatures with clawing hands and twisted hearts, crushing all opposition. The armies of the southern empires crumble and flee from the relentless grasshopper-like hordes. The fleets cannot touch them, but they touch the fleets, and smoke plumes on the distant horizon as the capitol is torched.

The Priestess calls her people to the council, and to war. Rugged mountain rangers, brawn-heavy farmers, harsh Arbiters, sure-footed nomads from the desert. All come to her.

“The King-time has come. Prepare for war,” she says, and they nod in silent acknowledgment.

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