t must have been approx. 8900 b.S. when they arrived, but thereís only one thing for certain: The day, they arrived. Eight riders, clothed in white, black and red, came to the southern plains of the Sarvonian Continent. The colours of their garbs were barely visible: the dust of a long and weary travel covered them like a thin browngrey blanket. Seven of them rode in front, still sitting straight and proud in their saddles. Their faces were like black holes, even in the burning sun they were not to be seen. Only a few glowing, golden eyes, constantly searching the landscape, were clearly visible.
The last one, almost invisible on his horse's back, lay suffering and sick in his saddle.
They came like a soft breeze after a dark storm, before them lay only wasteland. The great war, the War of the Chosen, had reigned here as well.
The eight stood on the edge of what was later called the Lands of Pain and Death with a mighty
volcano in their back, a region recently formed because of the war. The seven had halted their horses and looked to the eighth rider. The man suddenly raised his arm and pointed it forward. As struck by lightning the horses rode forward again.
One week later: An inhuman cry echoed over the settlement. One by one seven riders trampled through the city, killing every lifeform visible, be it human, animal or anything else. Within minutes the battle, if it deserved that name, was over. The refugees from the war who had tried to built up a new existence on this humble place were slain in cold blood, but the seven didnít seem to care. Instead they leapt off their horses and ran to the edge of the town. There the brown countryland ended, and the deep blue ocean began. But close to the edge of the sea a ruin stood. The stones were blackened by flames long extinguished and crumbled by hands no longer alive. Silently another horse came closer: it was the eigth rider. Steadily the horse came closer, and the rider raised his head and gazed upon the ruins.
"At last we have arrived, my loyal servants, but even here it has passed."
He paused for minutes until he said something again: "Leave me be, for a few minutes."
The seven nodded and left. Groaning the man reached for the ground and almost fell off his horse. His legs were barely able to hold the battered and wounded body.
Moments later: The other seven men stood in front of a large, strong, black fortress. Their clothes were clean now. Each one of them wore a white shirt with red cape and hat. Black were their pants and face. Each one of them had a different weapon on his back: Pike, battleaxe, bow, claymore, double scimitar, club and staff, each one his own speciality. They were called to this place by the building, a dark voice echoing in their brain: "Come to me, my loyal Heralds, and rule this land in my name, in the name of Thalambath!"
Story written by Gean Firefeet