Who are we to object?” The rangy man asked, stuffing the last few items into a dingy, old rucksack. He was a tall man, thick boned with long, brown hair that curled and twisted like a vine. His large hands were weathered, but strong, and his serene green eyes betrayed his true age. He stood inside of a glowing dome. The black, onyx floor reflected the sparkling blue light that made up the ceiling. To his left was a thinner man, lean and gangly, but no less intimidating. He scanned the other man with his mystic blue eyes and then spoke. “Who are we not to object Tarian? Whether they accept it or not, war is at our door. We must reinforce the outpost.” “But Earth! Certainly our talents are better suited elsewhere.” Tarian laughed. “Come with me or stay Tarian, I am going.” Daviathan began to walk off, grabbing a sack from the floor and slinging it over his shoulder. “And what of the prophecy does that mean nothing to you?” “What of it? Should the ramblings of an old woman determine my fate?
