The Army Of The Damned. The White Mother ~~ The Dream Trilogy. *The frequently edited version*

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, wind 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 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 have heard tales of 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 pommele 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. Thus were a kingdom and a king, a kingdom of dry grass and crumbling soil and a nation of wondering people. The king looked at his land, breathed in the cool air, looked at it´s cloudy sky. He squatted down, picked up the dirt and rubbed it between his fingers. "Dark, almost black ... I haven´t seen anything like this elsewhere..." he mumbled and stood up, went to his company and rode off. On that day, the moment of feeling that soil between his fingers a decision was born. At the beginning it was a dream, a wild dream. He needed something, this place needed something and that something was the bringer of the miracle of life, water. There was water in the wells, yet it seldom rained. The wells were investigated and an underground water vein big as a river was found and in time irrigation systems were built and thus could come villages and towns and a central, where under tree a statue can be found of the first king with soil in his hand. The central was called "raven earth", R´deawen in their tongue. The crops were never grand, but they were enough to support the merkaani. The merkaani continued as merchants, but their scattered families could now gather there, in their home, their land, kingdom what they called by this land´s ancient name, Roskulg, the road of the horse.

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 had always been an important trade route and thus the voice of merkaani gained even more power and weight and gave merkaani the power to stop the senseless killing and grant the horses´ safety wherever the mustangs roamed. Because now they were marked by the protecting word, they carried the mark of the brother, the mark of the sister of the merkaani. In time this bond took new forms, the merkaani became horsemen known for extraordinary skill and mindset, they came to be known as people who honour the horse and treat them as their equal.


Centuries passed and the land of merkaani bred many stories. The most beloved tale was a tale the first king was fond of too, the tale of The War. The story tells that once in troubled times there was a prophet, who in the middle of devastation brought an air of peace in the hearts of people. He spoke of light and dark, light and dark being embodied by two deities accordingly called The White Mother and The Dark Lord. Those two gods led the forces of these two opposites in an eternal battle of fighting without hate, but with respect, because one could not be without the other. Also, he said, without the fight of those two forces could not be the all, the world. Thus their swords were crossed, but with no ill will. Telling of this eternal fight he added, that he dreams, that someday a different way will be found for all to be, a way without bloodshed and battle. In the midst of battles raging, nights lit with flames people felt the touch of eternity in those words, in that dream salvation. The prophet´s words and the tale of the protecting Mark of the first king fused in the tides of time, the protecting spirit of Roskulg grew together with the concept of the White Mother and thus came to be a religion honouring her as the embodiment of eternal kindness and encompassing love, the caring home, the protecting mother. Too was born was the tradition of The Marking. The people, horses and homes of Roskulg came to carry the Mark, that embodied the tale of the hateless eternal fight and the will to protect and care for one´s beloved. It became to be believed, that The Mark could only be drawn by a wise one called the Marker and if that Marker was found, he or she was granted protection of the king of Roskulg and the king´s house became the house of The Marker. Such privilege were granted for them, because the role of the Marker meant carrying a weight many could not bare and one could not share. The Marker was kin to the prophet, like the prophet had been the Marker too was a seer, the one with the sight beyond this time and realm. The Great Hall of Roskulg saw taking care of these seers as an honouring commitment and many of their kings had Markers serving in their courts as advisors.




One of The Markers of Roskulg of whom many tales were told, this one being one of them, 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 their Marker she was no longer shunned out and in time 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 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 new 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 the horse and walked it into the stable, where the stable boy took the horse 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 merchants felt her power, to him it was a kind of sense of intensity. The air around her was sharp as a blade and sometimes when near her he could feel it with his neck, like a breeze in the shape of a sword gently jotting across his throat, strongly and skilfully, 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 being of All. She moved her arm and read the stars, the moon, the night and the fields and unravelling 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 her. 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 at all in all these years, still she is that stupid, so 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 a love maddening, for what she had changed All and doomed who knows how much and knowing that 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 kingdom 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 beginning of 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 colours kind to dust and earth, then now 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 chair´s red cushion. And after a year passed the Roskulg army 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, making her radiate. "With light...", she thought when she saw herself depicted, she herself felt that she was lost in the darkness of 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 did she bind herself to a strict frame of being asked then telling, 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, the master strategist and brave warrior she had turned out to be. She was the kind of leader that put the safety of the people and her army first and thus she was honoured amongst her army.

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 sought source for power and found it amongst the people. The common people, who lost their kin in battles and to whom the tales of the Brave White Warrior, before known as the Marker didn´t reach - their sons stayed in camps when not in the fields, many did not know if their loved ones were alive or not. The soldiers and her 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 and the people.

The wars kept raging on, Roskulg suffered many losses. R´deawen 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 follow something, to lose themselves, many wanted to forget. There were ones who sought to gather others, some for power, some in faith, that they can serve, some speaking in the name of gods and some in the name 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 and the gap between the power and the people 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 of the Dark Guild, who was called king by his men, 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 was 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, violated, 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 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 didn´t know when 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 of the soldier 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 or burning. 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 foretold 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 if waking up, his eyes clearing he looked at the stars and looked for the moon too, 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 for even them were counted as brothers and thus given a second chance, but later, after having waging their swords against their fellow soldiers were executed, but 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 and the balance is gone and for the continuance of being something must weigh down instead 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 transcended to the respect his men had for him, from that love a bond between him and them and each and everyone of them had born and even now, when it had taken the form of shackles, they wore this bond with pride. The king was a servant of the Dark Lord and fought his battles for him, but because he had come by free will he was granted the freedom of choice and because his men too had followed him at their own will as well, 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 mightiest of all for their blade cut seldom, but if 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. One of the boys had the sheep, cows and oxen at his home, so he herded them. The other by 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 invited 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 two kids a sheep and a goat and some chickens and a rooster too. The two siblings worked hard on their small field and with the help of their playmates family they strived.

One night a man snuck in 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 favourite place. He rubbed his eyes and noticed black residue on his hands. Right, he was using coal. Coal had been used on the ships to protect men from sirens and even pirates like him feared the sirens, the enticement of the dark depths. He went to the wash basin and washed his face clean. "Feels good", he mumbled to himself and then he turned around to return to his seat in the corner he saw a girl looking at him. He opened his arms, so calling her and she walked, then ran 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 is 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 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 and smelling the sea and soon he was sailing it´s waves. His sister Seira travelled too, to the towns. Countless days passed becoming countless years. All changed, but she remained, until one day she met someone she knew in a town´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, my dear Raven", 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 of the bay was like floor, all of the floor was full of soldiers and before them was he, their king and he and all behind him had something on their backs... Do you know where angels came from?