The Army Of The Damned. The White Mother ~~ The Dream Trilogy

Dark soil crumbles from one´s fingers - dark, full of life and dry, light as dust. These plains are ever windy, thus the soil is whisked from one´s fingers and gone it is. The only thing that roots down this land is grass, wild and strong. It rains seldom, yet this grass grows. Never is it lush and green, it is dry and brownish and alive. These barren grasslands bare no trees nor streams and yet, they are home. Home of the horse and home of the man. The man travelled, for they were merchants. To those rooted they brought riches of of other like them, people of villages, towns and cities. They were like the wind, with no home, unbound. Yet this nation, proud of their freedom, settled down.

The travelling men roamed these dry grasslands, being the few to know it, to see it. They knew the springs and there they built wells and thus only they knew how to survive in this barren land. They, the travelling men and the horses. Mustangs, that is.
The wild horse too travelled, travelled to survive, to feed. By faith these plains connected the wild lands, where they could feed and breed, live. Two times a year they migrated trough the barren fields, the air filled with dust and the sound of thousands of hooves.
Till came the rooted men looking for sport, to pass time and cruel were their ways for they killed the horse. Many mustangs were slaughtered until a hand was raised. In the house of their guild a merkaani, for thus the travelling man was called spoke, spoke on the behalf of the horse. For they had seen the magnificent sight of those fields of death blooming to life as the mustangs ran across the plains. Their forefathers and them, they were connected by the moments in awe of that sight and thus they understood, on the brink of losing it for good – their brotherhood with the horse.

It was not as if they had not known it it was more like waking from a dream and then years after remembering the message of that dream. They did what their forefathers would have done, for this feeling was the red string of their hearts – they asked for a patch of land, dry and useless. Land and all, what´s there.

The king of their land revered the merkaani and in his heart revered the horse. As a man of power he could speak the first: “You all, that are before me. I have known your fathers and mothers and those before them. Nothing bad has ever been spoken of you, for you are honest people. Free as the wind, yet thy honor is set in stone. Thus I see no reason not to grant thy wish” and added in half voice: “it would be nice to see a pommelé again”
So the merkaani left the great halls as settled men and that night in the guild house mead foamed and flowed and toasts were sang, toasts for the heart, the kings heart beating in tune with theirs – in the beat of the drum of hooves in the grass of Roskulg.



Thus came a country, a nation. The man who raised his hand was voted king and not long from then a town was built. Water was scarce, but an undeground vein was found and irrigation systems were built, that became a basis for a town small, but strong. The merkaani continued as merchants, but their scattered families now gathered there, in R´deawen.

They had been given by the king a patch of dry land and all what´s there and that patch had bean Roskulg and all what´s there had meant the horses, that migrate trough there. The Roskulg territory given to them by the king was also an important trade route and thus the voice of merkaani gained even more power and weight and gave them the power to stop the sensless killing and grant their safety wherever the mustangs roamed. In time merkaani became horsemen known for skill and mindset, people, who honour the horse and treat them as their equal.


In time stories were born and those stories grew timeless and with stories came The Mark. The Mark as the embodiment of The Tale and thus the soul of the place and the people of what it had sprung from or were they born from The Tale, which came first. People believed in tales for tales gave them their pride, identity and a sort of peace of mind for the world was set in those tales. Their stories told not only of brave men and women, but of light and dark as well for once in troubled times there was a prophet, who in the middle of devastation brought an air of peace. From the prophet´s words grew legends and myths, what in time fused with the old stories and to those who know those tales the prophet´s words felt more ancient than those stories, for those words took them to the core of all, much like to the spring the stories. From that awe was born the tradition of The Marking. All what embodied the tale of the merkaani was marked with The One Mark, connecting the present to the past and that with the eternal. The One Mark could only be drawn by a wise one, the true teller and if that person was found, they were granted protection of the king of Roskulg and the king´s house became the house of The Marker.


The Marker not only knew The Tale, but was kind to the prophet for not only they knew it, they could feel it, feel the source of the stories. That source was called The One Story and that spoke of the eternal battle of light and dark, an honorable battle, where both sides respected each other. A battle which´s sole purpose was to be the basis of existence of all. Those opposite sides fought, because they had not yet found a way to sustain that basis without the fight, they crossed blades but did it in solid faith, that one day they will find it and there could be peace. Light and Dark were embodied by two deities accordingly called The White Mother and The Dark Lord, who were also the leaders of the battling forces. Both of these deities had followers, the main part of merkaani and The Marker of Roskulg were followers of The White Mother, who embodied care, warmth of home and encompassing love. The Dark Lord on the other hand embodied war and right for hatred. The believers of the two deities followed The One Story respecting each other as did the two battling forces.


One of The Markers was a young woman with fair skin and hair. Her eyes were calm and no one had seen them laugh nor cry. She seldom spoke and before and after being made The Marker spent her days walking in the grasslands. They said that she was like the sky above Roskulg, ever gray. It rained and cleared so seldom, that people there forgot both sun and rain. Before she was found as A Marker she was an outcast for even for the people of the land under that gray sky her calmness felt uneasing, but after the Hall of the King told the people that she was The Marker she was no longer shunned out and people grew to respect her.




Talking to her he started to feel, that there is something, that he hadn´t noticed before. First, he was in awe of the woman in front of him. So clear and solid was she in her words and presence, it was as it was giving her an air of nobility. The more of her her presence he felt the closer creeped an understanding, till it hit him as he had remembered something he had forgotten long ago. He noticed that the Mark was different from before. Slightly, but strongly darker and heavier, much resembling the being of the stranger´s nation. Before the Mark had been light and airy like the wind over Roskulg, now there was black soil and starless nights in that as well and that Mark was on every house, horse and man he could see. She had changed the Tale. She noticed what had happened to the man, started to speak, but stopped. He realized her power, a power greater than The Tale. He bowed and left without uttering a word.
The woman closed her eyes, took a deep breath and looked up into the sky and thought: "silence," then wrapped her cape tight around her and set off, "the fields are more honest in their silence for they do not speak, because they can not speak words unlike man, who speaks or stays silent based on choice". She had noticed how the merchant had connected with her, the connection had happened because she had let her presence unfold beyond the usual for she wanted words, even angry ones she would have wanted to listen. The sky above Roskulg doesn´t rain nor is there sunshine. "Winter is nearing", thought she, making her way into the open.



As always she walked far without resting, just walking on toward the next mark, that being a rock or a lighter spot on the horizon or a road mark. Walking. As always she had no food nor drink with her and as always she could feel no famine nor thirst. This day her walk was interrupted by a troop of soldiers. "We have come to you, our Marker. The King beseeches your counsel. We´ve brought you a horse". She mounted without a word and in the same manner took off towards the town.


She rode fast, not slowing down before she reached the Hall, there she dismounted and rushed inside. A man watched her dash, the way she didn´t slow down even when reaching the town´s gates. True, the streets of Roskulg were never busy and the risk of anyone getting hurt was low. He went and took the reins of her horse and walked it into the stable, where the stable boy took the it from him and he could breathe at ease for he was not used to handling horses. At his homeland were only stories of horses and even now, when he had started to feel like one of the merkaani he had never rode a horse and most of the time he avoided being around them. Big creatures, something about them made him shiver. He raised his hand and petted the horse´s warm and soft forehead, down, the nose and the horse rubbed his nose against his hand, thus the bond was born He was pretty surprised himself that he had actually got near this horse, maybe, because it was her horse he thought. He, like his fellow merchant felt her power, to him it was a kind of sense of intensity. Her´s was sharp as a blade and sometimes, when near her he could feel it with his neck, like a sword in the shape of a breeze gently jotting across his throat, strongly and skillfully, not drawing blood. Just in the middle of remembering this he suddenly felt it. She ran past him, to the stable boy and after getting a fresh horse, rode out of the stable, nearly running him over. Out of sight, away from the town in the ripping wind she screamed a silent scream, her horse on his hide legs, her dress flapping and the hooves of the forelegs touched ground gently and on they rode. Dusk darkened into night, following the stars she made her way. Peace had grown frail. She knew that there was years till the next battle, but this was the beginning and she knew that again she had to remain silent, swallow down another deadly bite and again she had to remain alive when wanting to die with every shred of her being. She burned in her pain, brewed dark and cold and rotted on the inside, withering away and on the outside her eyes stayed calm, gray like the ever cloudy sky. She cursed her heart for existing and hated herself for feeling this feeling, this love. She let go of the reins, she let herself fall and in the dark she laid, covering her eyes with her arm. Not to see the sky, the stars and the silver crescent - the ever being peace above screams, the static chaotically burning, burning being of All. She read the stars, the moon, the night and the fields and unraveling her dark storms she read him. She again turned every page of his being and all was as she had always known. Her cross to bear, only hers. She again tried to open her own book, but it remained shut no matter how hard she tore the covers. She calmed and laughed at herself thinking that she has not grown in all of these years, still she is that stupid, immature. The Marker, who not only reads the Tale, but who for some reason has a power greater than power of The Tale itself and for some reason shen this Marker among Markers was possessed by a love maddening, for what she had changed All and doomed who knows how many and what made her life a living hell. Her anger and love, twin flames mingled and away breathed it all, she, the girl gazing at the stars. Still on most occasions she could not restrain herself and if near him she could not stay calm and her intent to kill him, the embodiment of her pain slashed trough air, cutting the fabrics of All, nearly bleeding his throat.




A hand touched her side and she could feel the warmth of the other. Not afar, but close, so warm. Burning, that she pulled away and so... that she returned. So they danced around the fires among others sharing this air filled to the brim and like all others they drank it to the bitter end, before dawn drowning in the flows of each other. He watched her closed peaceful eyes after, pressed nearer and she opened her eyes and too, diving head first neared him. Someone not him, someone warm and gentle and with soft gentle lips speaking words. She listened, pressing her head against his chest, feeling his heart beating, his warmth spreading and she wanted to be closer and closer. She allowed this flame to grow calmer, to build walls around her and in her she bore life born from him. The emptiness she had known now twice brimming over with all she thought she´d never know and every little piece of her lifted by arms and carried to the bed chamber... .




The next battle, the third and a war unfolded. The Marker´s name spread far and wide for was known, that Roskulg was victorious because they had The Seer. The king`s faith in her was unshakable and thus the people stood strong. In the third year of the war the king was severely wounded in battle, losing the ability to walk. An infection ravaged his body, shackling him to bed and in time robbing him of his senses. Before the deterioration of his mind he handed his sword to The Marker, not his brother, who had wanted the throne and that was the skild what lead to the fall of the Hall of Roskulg. The side of the king´s brother stated, that the king had already lost his mind when he gave the ruling of the country to The Marker and that it rightfully belongs to the king´s brother, next in line to come to throne. And there was he side of The Marker. She did nothing to legitimize her rule besides taking that sword and grasping it strong and wielding it, leading the armies of Roskulg in battles. She changed. It echoed in her appearance, if before she had worn clothes in colors kind to dust and earth, then now for battle she bore white robes with clear markings of her high status. She refused to wear regalia besides the king´s sword and even that only in battle. On the eve of battle she went to the throne, on what it rested and after the battle wiped it clean of blood and returned it to the red chair´s cushion. After a year the forces of Roskulg bore a new flag, a white silhouette of a woman on a dark blue background - it looked as if there was the moon behind the woman, that making her radiate. She herself felt that she was lost in the night. She had known The Tale, but now she had become involved and intervened with it to the point of controlling it, thus The Marker became a mere title for her for she no longer knew nor feel The Tale. She no longer kept distance nor bound her to a strict frame of asked then tell, rather she no longer spoke, she acted. The men serving under her command did not see a woman nor a Marker in her, but a brilliant leader - a master strategist she had become, the kind that put the safety of the people and her army first and thus as a leader she was honored.


The Marker battled in the front lines, she battled for the people, but she was distant from them. The side of the king´s brother seeked for power and found it amongst the people. The common people, who lost their kind in battles and to whom the tales of The Marker didn´t reach - their sons stayed in camps when not in the fields. The warriors knew the course of war, of all at stake and gave their all to protect their all, their homes, families and country and to them it meant following her, anywhere. The party wishing to overthrow The Marker took advantage of the gap between her, her men and the people.


The wars kept raging on, Roskulg suffered many losses. The town was intact, but the air between the yet safe walls smelt of destruction for the wind carried there ash from burned fields, villages and cities and at times too often reeked of blood. The stranger had lost his place in the guild, the war fed stigma and fear and he felt homeless for he no longer belonged. He was not the only one. Many felt lost and forlorn, many despaired in their loss of loved ones, many lost homes, the place to belong to. The blades of war cut trough the roots and many rootless people were born. Their hearts were hurt beyond pain and life did not grant them the mercy of death. Winged by the success of The Marker of Roskulg many prophets new arose, here and there souls were caught. Many gathered seeking something to rely on, to lose themselves, to follow something, many wanted to forget. There were ones who seeked to gather others, some for power, some in faith, so they could serve, some speaking in the name of gods and some of demons. One of the latter was The Dark Guild, what gathered men wishing to bear arms - men, unwilling to bow to kings for the skild of the Hall had left them leaderless. They were the one on the other side of the gap, the ones in the dark and the moonlight didn´t reach them for there were clouds thick hiding it´s shine. And the clouds got thicker, the winds colder and stronger, now carrying not only the smell of death, but death itself. Plague roamed the lands, breaking the broken.



Thus came they day darkest of them all. Afront the leader of one of the fractions, called king by his followers of the Dark Guild a woman was brought. He did not turn his head, being lost in his own thoughts, but another was drawn near by the ruckus. There were shouting like "look, how fair she was " and "look at those lovely clothes, she must be a rich lady", but the first thing he noticed, was the Mark on her dress and with horror he looked up to find eyes meeting his. Held up by only the hands of the men, who had brought her was a bloody bundle reminiscent to a human. Her clothes were torn and one could tell, that she had been beaten and abused. He looked at her trying only not to let the truth reach him, he did not want to recognize her and yet he did. A moment after their eyes had locked a bright red tiny trickle of blood flowed from her mouth to her chin, her head lowered and the hair what had shown her face now covered it. The little tension remained in her body disappeared. The men didn´t toss her aside, instead they treated her now dead body like a toy. He watched it, unable to move, to think. At one moment he collapsed to the ground silently crying. The next day a soldier approached the king with a dagger in his hand. He spoke and then pressed the blade to his veins. The king rushed to him and wrapped his cape around the wounded arm as tightly as he could, then he shouted out for help, sent men to get the medicine man. Later that evening he went out from the caves. The night was cold and clear.

The Dark Guild lived in large caves in the mountains and the king spent all his days in them, in the dark silence of his lair. Now he was out breathing in the cold autumn air. Then he walked to the ledge, where dead bodies were kept before burial. He walked up to the body of The Marker, bowed over her and kissed her blue lifeless lips. "They have killed The White Mother", had shattered his silence. The soldier had cut himself, because he was speaking out of line and rank and of such that would be considered nonsense - but this was the time, where there were words no more truer and appropriate than these. When the king was young he had been told of a great love. A love so unimaginable - to be loved by the White Mother. It was known, that gods incarnate and this woman before him.. he knew in his heart, that it was her. He grasped her hands and cried. He cried out his very heart. Till he was empty and then in his void he heard and felt and knew.. that she had come to him. She spoke and he was given the knowledge. When she left he looked into the sky as waking up, his eyes clearing he looked at the stars and looked for the moon, but could not find it. "Yes, she is not there", he walked back to the caves, "but she is in me".


In the cave he had the men be gathered and before his men he spoke and he spoke of all truthfully. Thus he became A Prophet and in history he was given the name The Second. The men who killed her were marauders, who at first were spared of death, but later, after having waging their swords against their fellow soldiers were executed in an honourable manner. Then came the time his words came true. As he had told, the old sun meaning the White Mother´s incarnation had been killed, but the being continues, for there is a new sun - a weak light growing stronger, still the balance is gone and for the continuance of being something must weigh down instead of the White Mother, there must be a sacrifice. Trough his heart this sacrifice was him and trough the hearts of men, who honoured him followed him and as he had told, there came a day when they were no longer alive nor dead. They became the damned and in time their being shifted from one level to an other and as damned ones they were placed among the Dark Force in the eternal battle of Light and Dark.


There they stood out. The king´s love for The White Mother had with years trancended to the respect his men had for him, from that love a bond between him and them and everyone of them had born and even now, when it had taken the form of shackels, they wore this bond with pride. The king was a servant of the Dark Lord and fought his battles for him. As he had came by free will he was granted the freedom of choice and because his men too had followed him at their own will, they too were free to choose the battles they wanted to fight. At first the men made their own choices, but in time they all returned, making the choice to once again follow him and only him. And when he fought, they all fought and they were the mightest of all for their blade cut seldom, but when it did, their swords weighed down with the weight of the heart.




In the grassy plains winds blew, were winters and summers, was even rain. Horses passed trough Roskulg again. Wars ended and peace arrived. People built homes and again one could hear children laughing. In the grass sat three children, two boys and a girl. They played with animals make belief, stone sheep and horses, cows and oxen. One of the boys had the sheep, cows and oxen at his home, so he herded them. The other boy played, that a piece of grass is an eagle and flew over the herds and the girl played to be running trough the fields as the wild mustangs. Then one day the boy with the farm invite them to stay at his place, so the eagle could rest his wings and the horse could eat oats and drink fresh water. The evening before he had talked to his father, who told him to be kinder to those kids, because they have a hard life. The next year the boy´s mother gave the to kids a sheep and a goat and some chickens with a rooster. Their father, who had been at sea did not return anymore that year. The two siblings kept on working on their small field and with the help of their playmates family the children strived.

One night a man snuck into the children´s house, made way to the kitchen and sat down in the corner of the room and there waited for the sunrise. He woke up when the bright morning light shone straight at him, just as he had planned. It used to be her favorite place. He rubbed his eyes and noticed black residue on his hands. Right, he was using coal. He went to the wash basin and washed his face clean. "Feels good", he mumbled to himself and when he turned around to return to the corner he saw a girl looking at him. He opened his arms calling her and she walked up to him, to his embrace and cried. She thought, that he was never going to return and now... she pressed herself against him and he held her tight, petting her head. "I´ll go wake up Corin" she suddenly said and went to the bedchamber, where her brother was sleeping or so she thought. He was holding his blanket tight over his eyes. She talked to him in a gentle voice and the boy loosened his grip. The man too came to the bedchamber and sat on the side of the boy´s bed. The boy was still too afraid to look.. he was so afraid, that this was a dream. The man stroke his head and the boy recognized his touch - it really was him, he thought and started sobbing, still under the blanket. The man took the boy, wrapped the blanket around him and held him in his lap. The girl too sat besides them and leaned on his shoulder. Thus began the days together. Their father had returned to stay.


He started to work at their playmates farm, who in exchange helped him with the work around their home. Life was peaceful and even the sky cleared. The children and rest of the grasslands´ people learned to know the blue and the sun. Years passed and these days became beautiful memories. Corin left the farm in search of his father, who had left some time before. He travelled trough the fields, saw the mossy forests and finally stood, seeing the sea and soon he was sailing it´s waves. His sister Seira travelled too, to the town. One day she met someone she knew on it´s bustling streets. The next morning he found the streets empty and her waiting for him. She invited him to follow her with the wave of her hand and not knowing why, he followed her.

At one moment he noticed that they were not alone. He started to see people around them, ghosts, soldiers going the same way. He walked in that crowd and suddenly saw, that he was by the seaside. Before him was a bay, afar straight ahead from him was the mouth of it and beyond there.. the open sea. The soldiers passed him, they went into the water, every one of them and when the last one was in the waves, it started to rain. The girl was by his side, she gently took his hand. "You never were a stranger to me", she said and he started to cry. Trough his tears he saw people on the water, their silhouettes drawn by the falling rain. All of the water was like floor, all of the floor was full and before them was he and him and all behind him had something on their backs. Do you know where angels came from?