A bright sun beamed down upon the marshes and bogs that spanned Zingiri’s continents. A deserted planet; rumoured to have been washed away by a plague-ridden monster whose death spread moss and invasive flora through its waters, its creatures have adapted over the centuries to move well through the thick patches of mud and moss on their horizon.
Zingirians were a tough and thriving people, capable of adapting in short length to any and all situations, no matter how dire. Throughout their lives, they had been imbedded with the Warrior mentality – to push down pain, and to never acknowledge one’s suffering if they wished to move forward. Warriors would see and know great difficulties but, it was their solemn duty to persevere.
Zingirian forms were covered in tough, rigid scales from head to toe, providing them with great agility and defense, especially underwater. Their maw was filled with short, razor-sharp fangs, and eyes that were on either side of their skull, protruding like a predator and layered with multiple films to allow for greater vision in even the murkiest of depths. Still, they would hone their other senses, relying on scent and sound when sight could not be so clear. It is believed that their race is nearly as Ancient in their existence as the Torians, and that they bore witness to the demise of the Emerald Moon, an event that seemed to have tidally locked their own moon and created an endless cycle of light to shine down upon their planet’s surface.
But the Warriors of Zingiri were not all brawn and fight. Some joined the Temple, where the litanies of their people would come into being, to preach justice, patience, strength, and endurance. Not only was the Temple home to the litanies but, to Zingiri’s Rift Port as well. For this the Temple needed Guards, but Guards needed something to protect, and thus those who served the Zingirian Rules of Old also came into being. The Litanies were written over the course of centuries, with many of them being danced around the Rift Port to be stored due to its sheer size at the center of their massive library. However, there was one Zingiri remembering witnessing the birth of the Litanies in clear vision – the Warrior, Mantel.
Mantel had been nothing more than a young pup, following his mother throughout the Temple as she carried the scrolls that carried their oaths, and the ones that would soon follow. He even aided in carrying the ink and parchment, and later the stone that they would be etched upon in permanence. He looked upon the massive Rift Port that stood at the Temple’s center, surrounded by the Litanies being written as if it were a mirror, looking into their own world to somehow record their history itself. It was in hopes that with his young mind so curious to the Litanies and the Temple itself, that Mantel would follow in his Mother’s footsteps, and become a Holder; one who would retain the knowledge and pass it down through speech to the generations that followed when the stones could no longer be perceived. But Mantel had other ideas.
The idea that words could be forgotten, and that all they had worked towards creating for both their world and its people, being so easily destroyed by age or foe sank deep into Mantel’s heart. Each night, he would stare at his Father’s Spear, still mounted alongside his statue at the Temple’s entrance, where many Warriors would be remembered by generations to come for their loyalty, and their dedication to the salvation of the Zingirian people. His mother would tell him that sacrifices had to be made so that they could move forward, and that such sacrifice is what brought forth the need for the Litanies but, Mantel couldn’t shake an eerie feeling deep within. Weapons were passed down over generations, just like the knowledge of the Litanies, with Weaponry being tied not only to children but, bloodlines so that if one family were erased, a brother, or Mother could easily take up that Weapon themselves and keep it from stagnating. While he understood the importance of his father’s Spear holding place at the Temple Gates, to remark the sacrifices that he and his brothers had faced to keep the planet at peace, Mantel could not let such a legacy, nor a weapon, sit idly for eternity. He could hear his father’s voice in his head, showing him the Spear by the edge of the fire, and telling him that one day it would be his to carry. Mantel held such words in his head and heart, repeating them frequently until the day came where he would choose his path.
The Litanies were for the next generation but, who would protect the memories of the past? For him, the decision was simple – he would follow his Father’s path, so that he could ensure his Mother’s practice and memory would not be forgotten. Taking up his Father’s Spear, he joined his brethren at the edge of the Swamp, prepared to learn and to fight, no matter the cost. His Mother was torn; fighting against both pride and anger for her son’s choice but, there was nothing she could do to steer his ideals. Mantel had chosen the path of a Warrior. He did not wish to see the past forgotten, nor the future devastated by a lack of discipline. What rest in the possession of the Zingirian people, locked deep within the sacred halls, beyond their Litanies, was a power beyond comprehension, a power that many other realms sought.
Years were spent swimming the bogs, trekking through the thick marshes and heavy mud as muscle was built, mind was steeled, and body was focused. To move without sight, to hear without sound, and feel without touch. The Swamps were a mess of haunting memory and torment, where even the most powerful Warriors found themselves lost in a mixture of emotion and memory. The Swamps were an area deep with Mora, where patches of moss could be harvested for its energy, dried, and turned into medicinal items, wares, and even ingested for taste. One simple bite of the mora-laced moss could send a Zingirian into a frenzy, one that could lead them to their death if they were not strong enough to fight off the effects. The essence that poured from such condensed energy filled the air with images of pain, and suffering, longing and regret, it could shift the focus on pressing forward and becoming stronger to one of curling into a ball and awaiting death. Mantel trained himself, eating bits and pieces of the mora-infused moss, granting him a deeper understanding of its power, allowing him to understand the difference between reality and mora-infested air. He had seen his Father’s strides, witnessed his Mother’s devastation at his Father’s death, no matter how she hid it from him, and he saw his true path forward.
The Temple could not keep the Runed Cube secret nor safe, for the people in service of the Litanies had sworn an oath of openness and truth, therefore disabling their protective stance should anyone, of any realm, ask about its whereabouts. Even should the Rift Port open its blackness to a throng of Warriors, their duty was protecting their words, and not their bodies. Mantel could not protect his people, nor their legacy, by staring at the words they had scribed. Clutching the Cube in his palm, he looked upon it for a moment before tucking it in the small pack beneath the Spear on his back. He turned his gaze to the Rift Port, as if a voice were deterring him from his actions but, he chalked it up to being no more than the Ghosts trapped within the Rift’s dimensional gate making idle noise. He would not be swayed by some otherworldly voices, no matter their Eternal status.
Just as he had sworn in his youth, he swore again to himself, that he would not see the fall of his people, nor their legacy, for the practice of keeping a sacred oath open and forward with the star systems. A sheer battle cry escaped his jaws, echoing into the air until the other Zingirian Warriors joined in his cries. Battle had come once more but, this time, he would take it beyond the shores of his homeland.
