The rain of the gods flow for few,
The rain of the gods brings things that are new,
Things of evil and good to their sacred land,
Things that will play into the palm of their hand.

Upon the rain of the gods champions will entered the field,
Upon the rain of the gods the game did yield,
When the rain disappeared the game began,
The gods cheered like fanatic fans.

The Gods of Good choose their warriors long ago,
As they awaited for time to flow,
The God of Evil has gathered his hordes,
Only to die upon Good’s faithful sword.

So is the legend of Wantilan Realm.


The rain poured down his face like small marbles, they rolled into one another gathering strength and speed as they endlessly dripped toward the ground. The night progressed and the air held danger with every breeze. Even the trees seem to be holding secrets in their withered appearance. Mercaitor continued to walk ever strong without breaking his stride. His eyes roamed the path secretively without showing the paranoia he now felt. Every second was now an hour. The moons seemed to look at him with a grim smile through the dense storm clouds above. His every breath stung his nostrils. Without breaking his repetitive stride, he loosened the hilt of his sword with a slight of hand. The air grew tense as all around him seemed now to still to be safe. The wind stopped blowing and the trees held fast. All noises ceased as if everything drew a deep breath before an unstoppable outcome. Then it all made sense as finally something caught his wandering eye. The trees again seemed to move as the cruel storm’s breeze relieved his tense muscles. He slowed his stride, closing his eyes as he lifted his head to the heavens and drew a deep breath of his own.

* * *
The rain outside seemed to depress Jenrig’s mind and body. His face ridged and defined, his body toned as if etched in stone, his appearance reflected the many years of intense training and work. Tonight was his last day as a member of his clan. Tomorrow when he awakes it will finally be his Day of Wandering. He is to rightfully become a true Warrior of the Blue Flame. A ceremony he trained for his entire life and one that would not be ruined by the depression of the rain. The Blue Flame Clans had become the most feared fighters in all of Wantilan.
These few warriors battle for survival everyday dedicating their lives to the destruction of all that which is evil. They are so powerful that they are said to be of the purest of the children. Jenrig enjoyed the idea of being of the finest gems on Wantilan; he knew the pure blood of many gods flowed in his veins. He felt their gifts, learned to love and embrace them through his hardest trials. He heard their voices speak when others didn’t, he felt special.
He felt invincible.
Tomorrow marks the day of the eighteen rotation of the white moon. Hard to believe that so many years had past, but he knew he was ready to be a man. The life ahead of him will be a grand one. He looked out and pondered what was past the village he had never left. He wondered if the choice he made was the right one. Finally he just sat back in his hut and relaxed once more. To think about it further would only cause him confusion and fill his mind with doubts. He laid back and closed his eyes, rolled into a comfortable position and his next thought would be of triumph when he awoke.
* * *

Her hair was drenched as she greeted her friends coming to retrieve her from the lake. Her eyes were wet with tears and her body wet with the cold dense rain. She was curled up in a ball with her arms wrapped around her knees and her head in her lap. As the tears continued to teem down her face, her blurry vision made out the silhouettes of her four close friends.
“Carana! What happened? Why are you out here?” exclaimed Telinian from about twenty feet away. “Your parents called for us to retrieve you!”
“Only so they could yell at me more I suspect!” screamed Carana in a tear jerked tone.
As her friends neared they sat around her despite the cold rain and the muddy damp bank of the lake. They decided to stay until she returned with them, no matter what. Noticing this she relaxed her curled up body, wiped her tears away and began her story to release the weight on her chest that pained her so. She told them about how she had dreamed of a goddess and how the goddess spoke to her of faith and power. This well documented occasion was known as the calling of the gods, when a god has chosen another disciple to teach his or her wisdom and heal the land. She told her friends, who now seemed more distant then usual, of how she fought with her parents and was cast out of her home. When she left her house a bright light swirled around her invigorating her with new life. The light lead her to this lake and the goddess appeared again. Dyvinia, goddess of life and the white moon, had come to tell Carana she was a chosen. Carana was told she had the power to heal and that the heart of the world ached for her comfort. Most of what Dyvinia spoke Carana could not understand but truly the point was clear; Carana now had to search for her own answers. When she finished her story her friends stared at her not knowing what to say. For in her town females are seen as less then men and powerless, Carana was always brought up to know her place and to perform as expected. Now her mind was open, no longer clouded by the words of others she had a new purpose to dictate her life.