The Second War

Prologue: Watching from afar

The ancient War of the Magi... When its flames at last receded, only the charred husk of a world remained.

Snow hit the rough, jagged side of the mountains with a soft touch, dousing their normally gray tint in a deep white that was one of the very few beauties left in this torn and broken world.

Even the power of magic was lost. In the thousand years that followed, iron, gunpowder, and steam engines took the place of magic, and life slowly returned to the barren land.

Ever since that cursed war, nothing was truly natural anymore. Even the grass that grew in small patches across the world was somewhat forced: growth hormones added to natural seeds and planted into the ground. It refused to flourish. The only thing left to flourish were the people, who took their hands and bent the world into an industrialized giant: guns, steam-powered boats, and the true usage of iron served as their hammers, defending them against the monsters that roamed outside of their cities.

Yet there now stands one who would reawaken the magic of ages past, and use its dread power as a means by which to conquer all the world.

Mog let his feet dangle off of the cliff's edge, watching the hulking pieces of metal carrying these fleshy giants trudge through the snow, iron feet crunching and voices screaming over the howl of the wind. He grinned softly, his spear in hand.

Could anyone truly be foolish enough to repeat that mistake?

"This oughta be fun," he told himself.