In the vast and storied annals of Elandor, where the threads of fate wove kingdoms into a tapestry of enduring strife and fragile peace, the name of Aman the Founder resonated like the toll of an ancient bell across the ages. It was said that he had come from beyond the veils of the world—a reincarnate soul, much like Thorne in his hidden essence—descending upon Elandor in a time of cataclysm, when wars raged unchecked, and the lands bled from ceaseless battles. The scrolls of the Great Library in Centralia, that hallowed repository at the heart of the cricketing realms, preserved his saga in inks faded yet indelible, guarded by sages whose lifespans stretched toward two centuries, allowing memories to span generations as rivers carve valleys.
Aman, the lore recounted, appeared in the southern plains of what would become the kingdom of Eldoria, his form unassuming—a traveler clad in simple robes, bearing no weapon save a willow branch and a sphere of stitched hide. The peoples of Elandor, divided into warring clans, eyed him with suspicion, for strangers oft heralded doom. Yet Aman spoke with a voice that carried the authority of stars, proclaiming: "No more shall blade drink blood, nor arrow pierce kin. I bring the Great Game—cricket—to bind your fates in contest fair and bloodless. Upon the pitch shall empires rise and fall, resources claimed by skill, not slaughter." Skeptics mocked him, warlords scoffed, but in a grand assembly beneath the ancient oaks of Eldoria, Aman demonstrated the game's arcane beauty: the bowler's artful deception, the batsman's defiant stand, the field's symphony of strategy. One by one, the clans yielded, enchanted by its depth—a mirror of war's tactics, yet purged of death's shadow.
Under Aman's guidance, the Grand Council of Cricket was forged, its edicts etched upon tablets of enduring stone. Lifespans in Elandor, blessed by some fey grace or the game's harmonious essence, extended to two hundred years, permitting players to amass legends across epochs. Aman himself became the paragon, his career a beacon: as batsman, he amassed runs like grains of sand upon endless shores, his average unassailable, his centuries monuments to perseverance. The ranking system he devised stratified glory: Yellow Tier for those who crossed ten thousand runs, their names inscribed in amber scrolls; Great Tier at thirty thousand, honored with feasts and odes; Top Tier at seventy thousand, where heroes walked as demigods among mortals; and God Tier at one hundred thousand, a pinnacle touched only by Aman, his bat—the Willow Throne—imbued with mythic power, said to whisper futures to the worthy.
Bowlers and all-rounders held parallel hierarchies: wickets claimed or dual feats marking ascent. The Top Ten lists, updated with each series, became the Council's heartbeat—batsmen like the indomitable Hargor of Indor, whose drives cleaved defenses; bowlers such as Vaelin the Swift of Ausland, whose pace felled giants; all-rounders embodying balance, like Thorne aspired to be. Series of legend sprang from Aman's vision: the Ashes, that eternal feud between Eldoria and Valthor, born from a disputed urn of cremated bails, symbolizing rebirth from conflict; the Border-Gavaskar Trials, clashes of guile between Indor's spinners and Ausland's thunderous pacers, named for ancient captains whose rivalries echoed Aman's teachings; the Trans-Tasman Tempests, where island realms vied across stormy seas, their matches tempests of will.
Every decade, the Centennial Tourney summoned a hundred teams to Centralia's coliseum pitches—vast arenas of enchanted turf that defied seasons—where kingdoms staked their futures. Victors claimed the world's bounty: ores from dwarven mines, grains from elven vales, magics that tamed elements. Losers faced lean years, their peoples humbled yet unbroken, for the game taught resilience. Internal wars dissolved into cricketing duels; borders redrawn by scores, not sieges.
In Altgia's frozen exile, far from Centralia's warmth, Thorne pored over smuggled tomes in the dim light of Glacemere's communal hall. These volumes, bartered from southern traders at great peril through blizzard-choked passes, were fragments of the greater lore—yellowed pages bearing illuminated scripts, diagrams of pitches like battle maps, tales of Aman's feats that stirred Thorne's reincarnated soul. Seated upon a stool of rough-hewn pine, the rune-etched bat leaning against his knee like a faithful sentinel, Thorne traced the words with fingers numbed by cold. "Aman reached God Tier alone," he murmured to the flickering candle, "his Sight piercing veils, his calm unshakeable. We must climb such heights, or Altgia remains shadowed."
The bat's runes pulsed faintly, as if in affirmation, their glow a subtle warmth against the chill—a remnant of Garrick's touch, hinting at connections veiled. Thorne's own Future Sight mirrored Aman's legendary prescience, yet fragile, dependent on inner peace. In quiet hours, he practiced invocation: closing eyes, breathing deep as Garrick taught, glimpsing phantom balls' arcs. But memories of his earthly life intruded—crowds roaring in sunlit stadiums, averages etched in record books—blending with Elandor's myths until he scarce distinguished past from present.
Prince Arin, now a constant companion in their quest, joined these studies in Frosthaven's royal library—a chamber of vaulted ice, shelves lined with frost-rimed volumes guarded by Lorin the Sage. Arin, with his silver hair bound in a warrior's braid, lounged upon cushions of fur, his blue eyes scanning texts with princely impatience. "These ranks mock us, Thorne," he declared, slamming a tome shut in a puff of dust. "Altgia starts from naught—no pitch, no players of note. How ascend to Yellow, let alone God? And who leads? Thy gift or my command?"
Thorne met his gaze steadily, humility tempering his response. "We rise together, my prince. The king has named me captain for my knowledge, but thy vice-captaincy binds us as oak and vine. Ego must yield to unity, as Aman taught."
Arin nodded, though envy's shadow lingered—a princely pride chafed by subordination, foreshadowing clashes to come. Yet their debates forged growth: Arin learned patience from Thorne's calm, while Thorne absorbed Arin's bold strategies, their characters intertwining like roots beneath soil. In mock councils, they planned: scouting recruits from Altgia's villages, innovating against the snow—perhaps enchanted turf from southern allies, or domed arenas hewn from glaciers.
Word of the king's decree spread like hoarfrost across the realm, carried by heralds on sleighs that braved howling gales. Villages stirred from winter's torpor; folk whispered of hope amid hearths. Thorne and Arin set forth on recruitment, their sleigh laden with provisions from royal stores—meager grains, cured meats, gear fashioned from what scraps could be spared. First to Glacemere, where Thorne's kinfolk gathered in the hall, eyes wide with awe at the prince's presence.
Altgia calls for champions," Thorne proclaimed, his voice steady as mountain stone. "The Great Game offers salvation. Who among ye wields strength for the bowl, grace for the bat?"
From the throng stepped Burak the Smith, a burly man of forty summers, his arms forged like hammers from years at the anvil. "I've swung mallets heavier than thy bat, lad," he rumbled, his beard crusted with soot. "If it aids our bellies, I'll bowl thunder."
Arin tested him: a makeshift over in the hollow, Burak's deliveries crude but potent, pace born of raw power. "A fast bowler in the making," Arin conceded, clapping his shoulder. "Welcome to the fellowship."
Next came Lira, a nimble maiden of seventeen, her fingers deft from weaving nets upon the ice-lakes. "Women play in southern teams," she asserted, eyes fierce as a hawk's. "Why not here? I spin threads—why not balls?"
Thorne nodded approval, recalling Aman's inclusive edicts. Her trial revealed guile: fingers twisting the ball for turn upon the frozen ground. "A spinner to weave deceptions," Thorne declared. Arin's initial skepticism yielded to admiration, his character softening—learning humility from the lowborn's talents.
They journeyed onward to Stormridge, a hamlet perched upon cliffs where winds sculpted snow into phantoms. There, they found Kael, a lanky youth with eyes sharp as daggers, orphaned by avalanches yet unbowed. "I've tracked game through blizzards," he said, demonstrating fielding—diving upon ice without flinching, catches sure as fate. "An all-rounder," Arin pronounced, his vice-captain's eye discerning potential.
Village by village, the team assembled: eleven souls plus reserves, a motley fellowship drawn from Altgia's hardy stock. There was Gorim, the stout keeper from Frosthaven's guards, his gloves padded with fur; Elara, a healer with a batsman's poise, her strokes elegant as poetry; and old Harlan, a veteran of border skirmishes, his wisdom guiding tactics like a sage's counsel. Each brought scars of poverty—hollow cheeks, threadbare cloaks—yet kindled by the dream.
Conflicts foreshadowed amid the forging: Arin's commands clashed with Thorne's strategies during drills, egos sparking like flint on steel. Once, in a simulated match upon a cleared field, Arin overruled Thorne's field placement, leading to a "defeat" against phantom foes. "Thy Sight fails under my lead?" Arin jested, but tension simmered. Thorne, humbled, reflected: "Pressure tests us, as Garrick warned." Their rivalry spurred growth—Arin tempered his pride, Thorne his isolation—step by step, rivals becoming true friends.
King Eldric watched from Frosthaven, his benevolent heart swelling. "Resources dwindle," he confided to Lorin, "but spirit rises. We must petition the Council for entry—prove our worth in qualifiers."
As the arc of assembly neared completion, Thorne dreamed of Garrick: the vagabond upon a distant pitch, bat aglow, facing multitudes. Awakening, he clutched the rune-etched willow, sensing echoes of Aman—veiled truths awaiting revelation in trials afar.
Altgia's team stood ready, a flame against the cold. International fixtures beckoned—spars with minor realms, paths to the Ten. Downfalls loomed: financial woes, internal strife, pressure's shatter. Yet comebacks whispered in the winds, destinies unfolding like ancient scrolls.
In Centralia, the Council stirred, rumors of a northern upstart reaching their ears. The Centennial approached, shadows gathering. Thorne and Arin, captain and vice, marched onward, their saga etching into Elandor's eternal lore.
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