The dark purple clouds clung like mottled bruises across the sky and roiled with flashes of silent lightning. The clifftop was bleak and rotten, perfectly matching the atmosphere of the weather. A figure stood on the edge, glancing across the vast plain below, his ragged cloak flapped agitatedly against his knees, giving the only sound, bar the whistle of the wind. A 'whaap-whaap' noise was the only thing the person approaching could hear.

His heavy footfalls echoed loudly, announcing his presence. The rustle of his breeches as he strode up to the figure before him was louder still. The vibrant green eyes of the visitor bore into the figure’s back, "You need to stop this, Brother. You will destroy our home. Your home."

"It is no home of mine, Marren." The figure's voice was deep and gravelly, it sounded dark, dangerous like his voice alone would render you immobile. He turned on the spot, a pebble flicking towards the edge at the scuff of his boot. His face was serene and undoubtedly handsome if it hadn't been the desolate light in those black-emerald eyes glinting within the heavy hood. Eyes that once matched the bright emerald pair staring back. "You were my older Brother Marren, and yet that was never a home. Join me. Together we can cleanse this place." He offered out a hand.

The crack of the thunder above briefly shattered the silence. Once the flash of lightning cleared, both figures shifted quicker than normal eyes could see. A sword and battle-axe met, sending another thunderous crash through the air. "I cannot let you, Garrett."

Sword and battle-axe clashed, their wielders silent for a while. Marren skidded across the rock spreading pebbles and small rocks in all directions. His long two-handed claymore scratched along the rock, digging a thin groove in its wake. As Marren came to a halt, his brother came to a stop. His double-handed, twin-bladed battle axe drew sparks in an arch as he also landed. Both men were equally matched in hand-to-hand and weapons warfare. They had been trained together from an early age.

War had been a long-standing tradition for the people of the plains. Tribes warring with tribes. Man vs man, man vs woman and woman vs woman. Those who did not wield a weapon would surely still bleed on them, so everyone capable of fighting would learn how to fight. The two men had been the best of their tribe until one day when Garrett had left and never returned. As the fighting seemed to subside and the tribes started settling among the plains, a dark presence had grown in the mountains' fringes. However, these two men were proficient in more than just hand-to-hand and weapon combat. They were also proficient magic users.

In a generation, someone might appear that could use more than one type of magic. These two brothers, who had come from a long line of tribal royalty, were both proficient in the Eight Elements of Magic. But this would be new for both brothers. Neither faced the other in true battle, and they had been separated for more than two years. More than enough time to learn new tricks and become someone the other no longer knew.

The battle that commenced was long, harrowing and would end in death.

I had to share this story, for this was where it started nearly four hundred summers ago. I had heard the legend, of course. They had been family, long distant family, forgotten and diluted into legend, but they had been family. According to the story my father told me as a child, they both died that day. I just never thought that story would ever become my own.