Year 370 since Upheaval, first month - Garn

Dull gray sky. It stretches endlessly, a sight ingrained into my eyes over many years. I wish for the day to stay like that, uneventful and bland but that sluggish thing would disagree. In the distance a mountain moves. How many of my creations will die today? The plain stretching before us is monotonous mirroring the sky, with patches of mostly violet and some black grass scattered through the largely level ground. We are gathered near a cluster of hills with siege engines on top dragged there with some difficulty by my beast-type crystalborn of both air and ground. Scholars of Vantium designed the now strategically placed siege engines—made out of painfully slow-to-carve stonewood. They are works of art and will throw cottage-sized boulders for hundreds of strides at the approaching big thing. In the end, I fear the result will be as if someone threw amaranth petals at me.

Some of my progeny wear the armor of alamarium, reflecting dim pewter light. It was always prized metal by humans for strength and durability. The experience of the wearer is revealed in scratches and slight dents although most of it is earned from friendly skirmishes during practice in the arena or one of many gymnasiums. Few had their armor annealed while battling far smaller beasts than the one approaching us today.

Most don't bother with heavy armor valuing mobility instead and wearing leather vambraces and greaves embossed with triquetra or symbols venerating the goddess of war: crossed swords, axes, and shields.

Almost none wear perfect shiny armor and for some reason, I prefer it that way since it gives an army a certain rough appeal.

Their large rectangular shields are another matter. Contrasting the rest of their gear, shields are flawless, without any scratches, and polished containing fractions of symbols and parts of lines. Each has a pebble-sized blue crystal in its center.

The mindless thing is looming towards us from the west while we wait patiently. We are an army of tall, short, ground-bound, winged, and even some water-type kindred, all ready to die for one another and for the Five Cities.

I can see the beauty in my most fearsome-looking creations but I find none in the approaching abomination. It is vicious, as humans would say, ''malice-made flesh'' with limbs of long impossibly thick pillars that carry it forward, making the ground cry. Its disturbingly arm-like forelegs have three fingers, each thicker than a horse's chest, that end in yellowish claws dirtied by mud and stone.

Waiting hits my creations the hardest, but patience is everything.

Grunts of it can be heard like the distant rumbling of thunder with each of its steps giving the ground a heartbeat. Soon, the sound is getting stronger making me feel like the soil could start to fracture.