[They stood no chance against us.We were thousands of years more advanced. They used bombs and medieval guns against us. We cut and carved through them with our Matterblades and Wormblades, when our fists would have been enough.]
We celebrate the event as the 'One Day War'—an event so revered it is a holiday in our culture,and treated as one of the great Varrow accomplishments.
A great example of one of the many flaws of our race.
Thirty damned years old.
An unfamiliar sound screams at me. I open my eyes and see it is the machine connected to my bed. I am in a hospital.
My face hurts.
My daughter is gone.
Before King Drovo, there was the law of Gift.
Gods would usually take women, men, children—and bring them to Hevathi. At first, this was seen as a good thing: lucky people who got taken to Hevathi early, where people go after they die.
But then the King would come back years later with the same person or people they took.
At one glance, you could see they were in Hell.
Most would be unable or unwilling to speak about what happened—but some did. Torture, rape, humility.
The first time I saw someone come back was when I was nine years old. A girl that I had innocent feelings for had come back after two years—she was a stranger when she came back.
A poor girl that had lived hundreds of years of hell.
When she killed herself a week later—and she was one of the so-called lucky ones, people who survived to make it back home—my parents protested all the way to their deaths.
That's when I stopped believing.
In our so-called Gods.
If they were Gods, then they were evil.
I don't know how people lie to themselves and believe the bullshit they tell us. Why would anyone want to believe that when we die we go to Hevathi and spend our lives with these devils that call themselves Gods?
But then Drovo became King.
He wasn't like the rest. He was kind, righteous. He banned the horrible laws. He made life good.
When he ruled, I met Gemma, had Nia, and found a reason to live.
Drovo is dead.And Nia is gone.
Taken by them devils.
My face aches and my blood boils. I rip myself out of the hospital bed and run through the corridor. Shouts echo at me, but I can't hear them.
I have to save her. I have to save her.
My foot gives out and I fall to the ground of the hospital.
I use all my strength to lift myself up and unfortunately look in a mirror to my side. My face, swollen and bruised, is barely recognisable.
How can I save my daughter when the people who have her did this with one punch?
The people who did this can fly.
The people who did this have trapped us in a box.
The people who did this are unbeatable.
The ache of my face quiets down as I realise something.
The man who butchered my parents, who battered my face—the Dwarf Sword—is a Guard.
He protects the God King.
The Gods need protecting.
The Gods fight something—or each other.
They aren't invincible.
An ugly grin erupts on my broken face. I understand.
I've wondered why they would need Paintakers all my life. Why could the Gods possibly need it?
The pills and injections that they give us.
They need them because they use them on each other.