The Fires of Mome: Part 1: a Prolouge of Sorts
A raging fire held the battlefield in its solemn grasp. Tortured cries for mercy rang out as they had been for the last five days. How stupid were they? Why did they keep fighting? They never made any progress. Quite honestly, Famarin had become quite bored and tired with it. His opponents were quite dumb and didn’t understand when to give up. So far their opponents had lost 500 people while his army had not yet lost a single man. One blood crusted man was sort of standing on the field begging for someone to end his life. No one listened to the grubby man because he was so close to the ground. The reason that I say that he was sort of standing is because he was, to say, propped up on his leg stumps, chopped of and crusted at the inner thigh. The man could not grab a sword to kill himself because he had arms neither, also sliced off at the shoulder. One might say this was cruel, but each of the Warlord Princes of Mome knew quite better than that. Here in Mome, battles were held and watched like baseball or football to us. The society of Mome was a rather violent one and the people were all malicious and blood-thirsty. The Warlord Princes formed armies just to watch them die for their pleasure. Sometimes peasants would bet on the armies. Fans even had favorites that they regularly rooted for. Though if your team lost one game you knew that they would never win another game. You see, games could go on for years if the teams were evenly matched and kept switching in a steady supply of decent fighters. Not all teams were trained, but one thing was sure, if your team started loosing, you had best get out of there, because the only way to win was to kill everyone on the other team. Whenever Mome was threatened with a real war, the people of Mome just moved their wooden bleachers out a couple of miles to the battle. It was all a game to them. A very bloody, violent game no less. Because Mome was such a blood-thirsty place, few people ever tried to conquer Mome. Mome had never been conquered as far as their history goes because they practice all the time. Also, by the law of natural selection, since all the bad fighters that ever existed had “died out” only the top-quality fighting genes got passed down. Because the best fighters there were like rock stars, they had fan girls and cults, the whole thing, so obviously they passed their genes along a few more times that records say. The worst part of this whole thing was that the Warlord prince that won the games became king. The King of Mome was an extremely old and grizzled man who had three hundred and six sons. Three hundred Warlord Princes. Famarin was the one-hundred and fifty-third Warlord Prince, born of Edina, the Kings one-hundredth and thirty-fourth wife and his Twenty-fifth favorite. The King of Mome, had Very. Many. Wives. Now Famarin was one of the more educated people in Mome, and though he was a Warlord Prince, he was more interested in becoming King so that he could help Mome become a little more civilized and a lot less brain-washed, brain-dead, idiotic. Famarin had some of his own problems as well, he was the middle child. With that many brothers it is #1, hard to get alone time with dad, #2, no matter how many children, being the middle child still sucks, and #3, If you are the 153rd child of a King, chances are that by the time you actually get to talk to him in person, he will be old and decrepit. That last one was so true.
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Thu Sep 11, 2008 10:06 pm