MidReal Story
Chosen Savior: Mason's Quest for Harmony
Scenario: In the time of myth, when the world is in chaos, there rise a young man, whom the faith of his country and tribe rest on his shoulder, his name "Mason"
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I stand on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the city, once my home.
Once the home of my people.
My gaze lingers on the ruins, the charred remains of a city that had been built by our ancestors, brick by brick, and had stood for centuries.
Now, it is nothing more than a memory.
The smoke rises from the ruins, a constant reminder of all that has been lost.
Naramos was once a city of beauty.
A city of towering spires and delicate bridges.
A city of dreams.
Now, it is little more than a ghost town.
The land that stretches before me is no better.
Once, it was lush and green, teeming with life.
Now, it is little more than a wasteland.
It is hard to believe that my people have been fighting over this barren land for centuries, but it is true.
We are a divided people.
We are three tribes in one—the Kryvs, the Vashels, and my people, the Vaylors.
Each tribe claims a portion of this land as their own, but none possess it fully.
The city itself stands as a reminder of the unity we once shared.
It was built by our ancestors, all three tribes working together to create something beautiful.
But that was long ago.
We are no longer united.
We are at war.
Which is why I stand on this cliff today, looking down at the smoldering ruins before me and trying to make sense of it all.
I have never known a world without war.
I have never known peace.
And I fear I never will.
It is said that our people once lived in harmony with one another and with the land itself, but that was before the warlord came to power and ravaged our world.
He brought death and destruction in his wake, leaving nothing behind but ashes and bloodshed.
It has been generations since his reign of terror ended, but the scars remain.
The destruction is everywhere I look—the charred remains of buildings, the bodies of the fallen—and it weighs heavily on my heart.
The buildings were once beautiful, tall and proud and filled with life.
Now they are broken and shattered, their windows smashed and their walls blackened by fire.
Some are little more than rubble, while others still stand, their bare bones exposed to the elements.
They remind me of skeletons, reaching desperately for something that is forever out of reach.
It is hard to believe that these ruins were once a place where dreams came true—a place where people lived and loved and built their lives together.
But they were.
And now they are nothing more than a memory.
I have never put much stock in prophecies or visions of the future.
My father taught me to rely on my own strength and judgment instead, and so I have always done so.
But now, as I look down at these ruins spread before me like a canvas of memories, I cannot help but think of the prophecy that foretold of my birth—the prophecy that spoke of a coming darkness and a child who would bring both salvation and destruction in his wake.
A child named Mason.
The ancient seer who foretold my birth had said that I would be born under a blood-red moon—a moon that happens once every hundred years—and that I would be the key to uniting our people once more.
My birth had been celebrated by all the Vaylors—even those who did not believe in such things—for it was seen as a sign of hope for our people.
We had been at war with the Kryvs for generations by then, and it seemed like there was no end in sight.
But then I was born, and everything changed.
Or at least, that was what everyone said.
In truth, my life had not been an easy one so far.
My mother died in childbirth, leaving my father a broken man.
He had once been a great warrior—a hero among our people—but after her death, he turned to drink to drown his sorrows and forgot all about his former glory.
He died when I was still a boy, leaving me an orphan with no one to call family but my grandfather Thorne.
He is a wise man—old and gray with piercing blue eyes—and he has always taken good care of me.
He taught me everything I know about our people and their ways—their traditions and their customs—their legends and their lore—and I have always loved him for it.
He is like a father to me in many ways.
But he is not here now.
He is back at camp with the rest of our people, waiting for my return.
I do not know what they will say when they see the ruins or how they will react.
I have been gone for weeks, journeying across the land in search of answers, and I am not sure that I have found them.
The weight of their expectations hangs heavy on my shoulders, and I worry that I may not be the savior they hope me to be.
I am not a hero—just a boy.
And I am not sure that I can save our people from themselves.
But I have to try.
If there is any hope for our future, it lies with me and me alone.
I take one last look at the ruins spread out before me—the city that once stood tall and proud and filled with life—and then I turn away.
I need to get back to camp.
It is getting late, and I do not want to be out after dark.
At night, the ruins are said to be haunted by the spirits of the dead.
As one of the last remaining Vaylors, I have always been aware of the burden that has been placed upon my shoulders—the weight of my people’s expectations pressing down on me from above.
Ever since I was born, the elders of our tribe have spoken of the prophecy—the one foretold by an ancient seer—that said I would one day put an end to the bloodshed and bring peace to our divided land.
They said that I would be the one who would unite the warring factions under one banner—the one who would bring balance back to the world.
But as I stand on the edge of this cliff, looking down at the ruins of Naramos, I can’t help but wonder if my grandfather Thorne has been wrong all along.
From this vantage point, I can see all three parts of the city—each one claimed by one of the three tribes—and it is clear that none of them belong exclusively to us.
The buildings that once stood as a testament to our unity now lay in ruin, their once-proud structures reduced to rubble by centuries of fighting.
And all around them, the land is scarred by the battles that have raged between our people for generations.
Perhaps we were never meant to be united after all.
The prophecy—that once brought us hope—now feels like a heavy chain around my neck, threatening to suffocate me with its weight.
The burden of expectation has always been a heavy one for me to bear—ever since I was a boy—and as I look out at the devastation before me, I wonder if I am strong enough to carry it any longer.
Thorne has always believed in the prophecy and my ability to fulfill it—he has always had faith that I would one day save our people from themselves—but I am not so sure.
I do not know if I have the strength or the courage to do what needs to be done—if I am willing to make the sacrifices that will be required of me to save our land from destruction.
Or perhaps the seer was wrong and I am not the one destined to bring balance back to the world at all.
I do not know the answer—I do not think that anyone does—but I am running out of time and options.
The Kryvs and Vashels have been at war for as long as anyone can remember—fighting over the smallest things—and my own tribe, the Vaylors, has been caught in the middle for generations.
They hate each other with a passion—refusing to work together even when it is in their best interest—and I do not know if there is anything I can say or do to change that.
I do not know if there is any hope for our future or if even I—or Thorne—can save them from themselves.
I sigh and rub my temples—weary after such a long journey—and close my eyes against the pain.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and open them again, blinking away the tears.
Elara is standing beside me—my childhood friend—with her long dark hair and green eyes and a look of concern on her face.
She has been with me every step of the way—the only one who has never doubted me—and I am grateful for her company.
I am glad that she is here, but I cannot help but feel guilty that she is suffering because of me.
“Are you all right, Mason?”
she asks me, her voice soft.
“I’m fine,” I reply, trying to smile.
“Just tired, that’s all.”
She gives me a skeptical look, but does not press the matter.
Instead, she looks out at the city below, and I can see the pain in her eyes.
Naramos is her home too—where she grew up—and seeing it like this is hard on her.
It is hard on all of us.
Every morning, when the sun rises, I pray that the fires are finally gone and our city can begin to heal.
But each morning, I am disappointed.
The Kryvs burned everything when they destroyed the city.
They burned our homes and our crops and even our animals and they left nothing behind.
All that remains are the charred husks of what once were buildings and the blackened fields of ash that stretch out around them—like a scar on the face of the world.
It is a cruel reminder of what we have lost and what we can never get back.
And what we will likely lose again if we do not find a way to stop them.
Keldor—the leader of the Kryvs—has promised to destroy us if we ever cross him again and I have no doubt that he will make good on his threat if we give him the chance.
He is a ruthless man and he believes that the only way to bring peace back to the world is to eliminate all those who oppose him—even his own people—and I am not sure that I can reason with him or convince him otherwise.
I am not sure that I want to try.
As I stand here, looking out at all that has been lost, I feel a sickening sense of despair welling up inside of me and I know that I cannot let it consume me—not when so much is at stake.
I am the savior of my people—the one they have been waiting for—and it is up to me to lead them out of this darkness and into the light of a new day.
I know that it will not be easy—I know that there will be many who doubt me and who try to stop me—but I cannot let that stand in my way.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to steady my nerves.
It would be so much easier to walk away—to pretend that I never heard the prophecy or that I was not born under a blood-red moon—and let someone else deal with this mess.
But I cannot do that—I cannot abandon my people when they need me most.
I am not a coward.
I open my eyes and look out at the city below, my jaw set in determination.
I have come too far to give up now—I have spent too long fighting for this moment—and I refuse to let their faith in me go to waste.
I may not know what lies ahead or how I am going to do it, but I am going to find a way to unite these tribes under one banner.
And I am going to find a way to put an end to all this bloodshed once and for all.
I refuse to fail my people.
They have put their trust in me and their faith in my ability to save them—and I refuse to let them down.
I will prove to them—and to myself—that I am worthy of their admiration.
Mason—it is a name that has been passed down through generations, a name that has been whispered with reverence and awe for as long as anyone can remember.
Mason—the savior of Naramos, the one who will unite their warring factions and bring peace back to the world.
They say it is destiny—that I was born under a blood-red moon for a reason—and that it is up to me to fulfill my purpose.
It is a heavy burden to bear—especially for someone so young—but I have been training for this moment my entire life.
I am ready for whatever comes my way.
My mother gave me this name before she died—before Keldor killed her—and she told me that it was special, that it was a name fit for a prince or a king.
She told me that it was an old name—a powerful name—and that I had to live up to it, no matter what.
She told me that my name was like a precious jewel and that one day, when I proved myself worthy, it would shine like a beacon in the darkness.
She told me that my name would be one of the last things they remembered about me and one of the first things they forgot.
She told me—and I believed her—that my name would live on long after I was gone.
I did not understand what she meant at the time, but now I do.
I remember her words every time someone speaks my name and every time they tell me about the prophecy.
I remember them when my enemies—or my friends—ask me what it means and why it is so important and I remember them when I look out at all that has been lost.
My name is Mason—and it is up to me to bring peace back to our world.
It is not easy being called Mason—not when everyone around you treats you like you are something special or rare or delicate.
It is not easy being called Mason when everyone expects you to be something you are not or to do something you cannot.
It is not easy being called Mason when your entire life has already been decided for you—when your fate has already been sealed—and there is nothing you can do to change it.
But being called Mason is not all bad either.
Being called Mason means that you are part of something greater than yourself.
Being called Mason means that you are part of a long line of warriors and leaders who have dedicated their lives to protecting their people and upholding their honor.
Being called Mason means that you are special—that you are different from all those around you—and that you have a purpose in this world.
And—most importantly—being called Mason means that you are never alone.
The Vaylors are a proud tribe—one of the oldest tribes in all of Naramos—and they take great pride in their heritage and their culture.
They are strong warriors and fierce fighters and they will stop at nothing to ensure that their people thrive.
And they will stop at nothing to ensure that their savior fulfills his destiny.
The Vaylors have always been devout followers of the prophecy—they have always known that it was only a matter of time before their savior arrived—and they have done everything in their power to prepare him for this moment.
