"Where do you go when your blood and faith lead you astray?"

The presence of snow typically indicated three things for a Nysencian man. The first was that he and his fellow men were in the wrong place, whether that may be far from home or his duty. Second-most, they were witnessed straying too far from what was expected of them. Most importantly, they have disappointed - or worse, angered Him.

With the exception of the convicts exiled to the Athanora Mountains, whose decisions have earned them attrition without recession, the snow has only fallen unprompted on the continent twice. Before the first snowfall, youth and brats became swordsmen and spearmaidens before they could become men and women. Such was the norm among the warring cultures of Kesserfaire. The length of how long these practices existed is unknown for the study of history during the era illegitimised a culture’s martial prowess. In part to this and the unsound pursuit of tranquility, mankind looked to the requisition of instruments and vitriol - a military rebirth that is widely believed to have shaped the continent into its present strength. The further our ancestor’s contrivance grew, the greater the necessity for humanities became. Their families commanded rows of cannons and reveled in the authority, victory attributed to no other authority than their own.

When hellfire and recumbent fortresses painted the orange sky with black streaks and pockmarks, the white snow had come to swallow man whole. 

Our grandfathers were the first to accept our mistakes. When the continent could breathe once again, it became a babe’s utmost priority to tend to the ground they stood upon as soon as they were mobile. It was their duty to regrow that which has been cut, and share that which was mined. Even in times of warfare, fathers soaked their son’s blood from the soil and the survivors burned their elders and contained their ashes. 

Our fathers pioneered time and philosophy. The cultures found guidance underneath a constellation in the shape of a crystalline spear, sheathed in the ninety-nine days that frigid rain would shower the fields and brandished in the other ninety-nine that brought forth the sweltering heat. 

Most significantly, they had created the face of a man in the image of their strongest militaries. A patriarch who oversaw all in his court, yet was unworthy enough to set foot in it. A mentor who sought equity, yet fiercely punished dissidence and unruliness. For their sons, the Messanian fathers had called Him ‘Exima’. 

They could not blame each other for the snowfall, nor could they attribute their new found prosperity to any one limb of their respective people. Such a fear was ingrained so deeply that for once, the cultures could at the very least, accept at least one feature of one another. Despite the difference in skin, dialect or belief - their duties were one. Decades before their homogenisation, the kindlings of collectivism had sparked to create the multicultural firepit known as order.

Under Messani sons guided by the Exima, what was six cultures became one. Alongside their own, the names of the Varno, Sidona, Syrelian, Cresor and Lerunite would go on to indicate the months in their chronometry, casting aside their depraved history to usher in the Age of the Nysencians. The first light in a boundless darkness.

For thirteen centuries, the Nysencians lived in relative stability under the guidance of their ruler, who in turn looked towards the Exima. And for the first time in thirteen centuries, the snow had fallen once again. Milk filled gaps in the bricks and cobble. The elders gasped and the children cried. 

If not unity for His subjects, then what was it that He had desired?