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|“||One would think that we, who are creatures made purely for war, would have no culture....||”|
For a long time the Battlefield of Blasted Mountain was left alone unseen, unknown by most. A few wild animals stalked the charred earth finding no prey leaving again soon. Before it all a statue sat. A statue of immense beauty with flowing robes in shimmering colors and waist-long hair the color of Magic. This was the sight that met the first Wanderers who came upon the battlefield, about a hundred and thirty years after the last slaughter on the site. They came upon the place of unimaginable horrors bleakened by the ages in the light of The Rising Sun. Before it all on the edge of the cliff sat the statue. Alas, it was not a statue! As they found out when they approached to inspect it. It was alive somewhere in the hidden Depths of the Flesh Curious to find out what transpired they set up their village near the former battlefield. In time, as the wars were mild they decided to stay until the statue woke up someday. Meanwhile, they created a garden of Warring Flowers on what had once been The Battlefield of Blasted Mountain. And they named it exactly what it had been named before. Years came Decades went Yet the Statue the Statue never moved. It was a rock a final boundary an everlasting wall in the war-ridden plane. The one thing that stayed the one thing that remained.
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