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Description
Year: 472, Summer
Etrupe, towards the Eastern borders.

A small fortified town, a guard of no more than two hundred stands waiting, watching, for what they know to be an inevitable attack, for nothing more than wealth and entertainment. The town, built from nothing more than timbered trees from the surrounding area, burns well. In the past the town has been attacked a countless number of times, sometimes only minor damage and the invaders driven back, however, on nights like this one, the town can see savagery not seen by many, living or dead.

Within hours of the attack the wooden, poorly constructed defences are on fire, women, children clutching at their mothers, hands, back or breast flee from an oncoming hoard. However, as many as would escape, more would be pigs for the slaughter. Iron and steel blades do not distinguish between those who are old and those who are young. On this night, as many stories that many end, one begins. One whose affects shall ripple forward into mankind's future and change the course of history, these events will not be started by a man, nor the swinging of a sword, nor even at the cost of a life by fire or strike, merely, by the sweat on a young mother's hand.

A young mother, no older than twenty five, holds an infant to her chest, while clutching the hand of her other, eight year old boy. Their father has gone to fight, to buy them what little time he can give. It is dark, aside from the flickering flames of houses now ablaze. The alleyways the mother knows well, she hopes will protect her and her children, these streets, also full of people, screaming and crying. Many sit propped up against houses, merely tried of running and waiting for deaths merciful hand. From the eyes of the boy, he can see nothing, think of nothing other than panic and fear. His mind, now robbed of innocence watches as men dressed in bronze and steel run towards certain death, just to protect people like his mother and himself. He can do nothing but run, but he cannot run fast enough. His mother is too frantic, searching high and low for ways to escape the slaughter. Within the next few seconds, the fate of the world would be decided. His hand slips from hers, the heat and panic conspire to rip his fate from the protection of his mother. Within moments she has been absorbed into the crowded street. "Mother!" the boy screams, tears now running down his face. He is struck by the arm of another terrified person, someone who just like him has forgotten everything in the blind panic just to live. "Mummy!" he shouts again, his voice now pitched like a banshee. He waits a few moments, expecting to see his mother return for him. She will never come, for what felt like hours the boy screams, the street begins to slowly empty, however the howl of blood crazed invaders becomes ever louder. The boy is left, alone in a dark and dirty street, at the end of the world. His voice now hoarse from his now desperate and futile screams; "Mummy! Mummy!" He stops for a moment, to turn. Coming his way from the end of the street, are not a hoard of blood thirsty savages dressed in nothing but fur from their prey, but a small army of fully armoured soldiers. A flag is held aloft, although battered and singed it is still visible, a large eagle, perched on a branch. The boy may not have been educated, but he knew the symbol he saw above the gates every day, this was the symbol of Etrupe, the golden thread that made up the birds stunning coat, the grass coloured green of the background and finally, its silver eyes, that seemed to stare right at him. The boy, now exhausted, collapsed onto the dirt road.

The first of his senses to kick in was his touch, he could feel the dirt road he'd collapsed onto, he then could smell the smoke from the extinguished fires, finally he could hear a man, talking right over him. "Lad. Wake up." Within a moment, his eyes opened, flooded with light from the sun, he winced.
"It's alright lad," the man said. "You're safe now."
"Who… where is mummy?" The boy asked, the panic now surging through his body once more.
"Calm down boy." The man said, kneeling down, his golden armour caught the light, reminding him briefly of the bannered eagle. "Are you," he started.
"A soldier?" The man smiled, his face aged and covered in scars. "Yes."
"Do you know where my mummy is?" he asked again.
"On your feet lad." The man said, hauling the tiny boy to his feet. "You're coming with us." He smiled again. "Why?" The boy asked, simply.
"I," the man paused, "I don't know how to tell you this. Everyone, apart from you, is dead." The man's smile had dissipated. "But my Mummy… she's…" The boy stopped, his eyes now filling with water, his heart racing, his head aching. The man simply shook his head. This would be the moment the boy would remember for the rest of his life. The moment his mother, father and sister were taken from him, within him, at this very moment, exploded a fireball of hate that would fuel him for a life time, a life time where there would be plenty of time for hate, but, for now, the boy merely broke down and wept, it was of surprise that his tears did not fill the very street he knelt on.

As was the way with Etrupe commanders, they were all born from noble class families, from Marseille, the capital city. The boy was to be taken to Marseille as only spirits would be his company if he were to stay in his home town. The boy would later find out that not only was the man in the golden armour a commander, but the cousin of the Emperor of all Etrupe, Maximilian II. Despite the misgivings of many, this commander was not one of sheer anger and warfare. It was on the way to Marseille, that the boy would make his first ally.

Description
Year: 472, Summer
Etrupe, towards the Eastern borders.

A small fortified town, a guard of no more than two hundred stands waiting, watching, for what they know to be an inevitable attack, for nothing more than wealth and entertainment. The town, built from nothing more than timbered trees from the surrounding area, burns well. In the past the town has been attacked a countless number of times, sometimes only minor damage and the invaders driven back, however, on nights like this one, the town can see savagery not seen by many, living or dead.

Within hours of the attack the wooden, poorly constructed defences are on fire, women, children clutching at their mothers, hands, back or breast flee from an oncoming hoard. However, as many as would escape, more would be pigs for the slaughter. Iron and steel blades do not distinguish between those who are old and those who are young. On this night, as many stories that many end, one begins. One whose affects shall ripple forward into mankind's future and change the course of history, these events will not be started by a man, nor the swinging of a sword, nor even at the cost of a life by fire or strike, merely, by the sweat on a young mother's hand.

A young mother, no older than twenty five, holds an infant to her chest, while clutching the hand of her other, eight year old boy. Their father has gone to fight, to buy them what little time he can give. It is dark, aside from the flickering flames of houses now ablaze. The alleyways the mother knows well, she hopes will protect her and her children, these streets, also full of people, screaming and crying. Many sit propped up against houses, merely tried of running and waiting for deaths merciful hand. From the eyes of the boy, he can see nothing, think of nothing other than panic and fear. His mind, now robbed of innocence watches as men dressed in bronze and steel run towards certain death, just to protect people like his mother and himself. He can do nothing but run, but he cannot run fast enough. His mother is too frantic, searching high and low for ways to escape the slaughter. Within the next few seconds, the fate of the world would be decided. His hand slips from hers, the heat and panic conspire to rip his fate from the protection of his mother. Within moments she has been absorbed into the crowded street. "Mother!" the boy screams, tears now running down his face. He is struck by the arm of another terrified person, someone who just like him has forgotten everything in the blind panic just to live. "Mummy!" he shouts again, his voice now pitched like a banshee. He waits a few moments, expecting to see his mother return for him. She will never come, for what felt like hours the boy screams, the street begins to slowly empty, however the howl of blood crazed invaders becomes ever louder. The boy is left, alone in a dark and dirty street, at the end of the world. His voice now hoarse from his now desperate and futile screams; "Mummy! Mummy!" He stops for a moment, to turn. Coming his way from the end of the street, are not a hoard of blood thirsty savages dressed in nothing but fur from their prey, but a small army of fully armoured soldiers. A flag is held aloft, although battered and singed it is still visible, a large eagle, perched on a branch. The boy may not have been educated, but he knew the symbol he saw above the gates every day, this was the symbol of Etrupe, the golden thread that made up the birds stunning coat, the grass coloured green of the background and finally, its silver eyes, that seemed to stare right at him. The boy, now exhausted, collapsed onto the dirt road.

The first of his senses to kick in was his touch, he could feel the dirt road he'd collapsed onto, he then could smell the smoke from the extinguished fires, finally he could hear a man, talking right over him. "Lad. Wake up." Within a moment, his eyes opened, flooded with light from the sun, he winced.
"It's alright lad," the man said. "You're safe now."
"Who… where is mummy?" The boy asked, the panic now surging through his body once more.
"Calm down boy." The man said, kneeling down, his golden armour caught the light, reminding him briefly of the bannered eagle. "Are you," he started.
"A soldier?" The man smiled, his face aged and covered in scars. "Yes."
"Do you know where my mummy is?" he asked again.
"On your feet lad." The man said, hauling the tiny boy to his feet. "You're coming with us." He smiled again. "Why?" The boy asked, simply.
"I," the man paused, "I don't know how to tell you this. Everyone, apart from you, is dead." The man's smile had dissipated. "But my Mummy… she's…" The boy stopped, his eyes now filling with water, his heart racing, his head aching. The man simply shook his head. This would be the moment the boy would remember for the rest of his life. The moment his mother, father and sister were taken from him, within him, at this very moment, exploded a fireball of hate that would fuel him for a life time, a life time where there would be plenty of time for hate, but, for now, the boy merely broke down and wept, it was of surprise that his tears did not fill the very street he knelt on.

As was the way with Etrupe commanders, they were all born from noble class families, from Marseille, the capital city. The boy was to be taken to Marseille as only spirits would be his company if he were to stay in his home town. The boy would later find out that not only was the man in the golden armour a commander, but the cousin of the Emperor of all Etrupe, Maximilian II. Despite the misgivings of many, this commander was not one of sheer anger and warfare. It was on the way to Marseille, that the boy would make his first ally.