Hunger has given way to starvation. Health has become disease. Courage and valor submit to insubordination, even treason. The hope of a mighty republic lies dying, besieged in its only remaining stronghold. There is no hope. The foreign diplomat demands immediate surrender A mighty army stands ready, waiting for the battle horn to sound. They will give no quarter.
I consult the seer one final time, searching for an answer from the gods. Through the sorcerer's eyes comes images of smoke, fire, and blood. I can hear the screams of men. I can feel their pain. I cannot help them. It is always the same.
But this time something is different. A glint reflects on yonder hill. There is a rumbling from the ranks assembled outside the gates. A great light parts the smoke! A chorus of trumpets sounds! The thunderous echo of a thousand hooves races down from the hill. In the lead a magnificent warrior adorned in golden armor. He carries a lance forged in the fires of a volcano. He is Quinn Inuit, returned to aide the faithful of the republic! We are saved!
Then the icy cold chill of the morning wind awakens me. There is no aide. No Quinn Inuit. The battle horn sounds. Today we die.




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