April 13th, 1800
...
Three soldiers were pinned against that wall.
They had their weapons taken by the enemy. Helpless and vulnerable, almost naked, they were assassinated without any mercy, in front of their familiars even. One of them was my brother who had just married a few days before the invasion.
On that very wall, there used to be a beautiful mural dedicated to Lord Gizamaluke, from his birth until his death and reincarnation as a monster. He remained loyal to our country despite his soul being caged within a ferocious creature, as legend says, and like everything I stand upon, Gizamaluke and his soldiers were decimated.
The artwork of that mural transcended for generations. It took the handcraft of a hundred men to build that wall that stretched for miles. Sadly, their efforts have been reduced to rubble. The labor of so many workers, simply gone. How tragic.
Two decades were needed to erect those walls, and a single day for them to fall apart. Pieces of marble and stone crumbled as if they had never existed, and the story of Lord Gizamaluke, once known by many since childhood, is left forgotten. While building homes may be a simple task, restoring ancient artworks is impossible when there is nothing in your hands but dust and blood. We often fail to appreciate the treasures we hold dear... We barely notice them until they are lost to us forever.