These are times of war...
The wars have gone on so long, song of peace have long since died out. No mother can look at her young child and smile, no mother can whisper 'it's alright' because it isn't. It hasn't been alright for a hundred and forty-five years, and we are a people close to dieing. We are the Sha'at, and ancient race of amazonian warriors whose beliefs far outlive our numbers. Every year more of us seem to fade. Every year, you can see the sadness in your queens eyes. You can hear the sorrow in our princess's song. But we ignore them; we have to if we are to harbor our hate and continue fighting.
That was our first mistake. We tried to keep going, and because of that, our princess -beloved, beautiful woman that is- offered herself up instead. She convinced our queen to let her and her chosen high guard march into the enemy camp -the Balvidarian scum- so that she could make arrangements of peace. She promised to do anything. She promised to do everything. And now she's set to marry the damned Balvedarian prince in the way of his people, uniting our dwindling tribe with his flourishing one.
Mercy be upon us -the unworthy high guard- for not paying more attention. Mercy be upon us. We have sacrificed the old ways for new ones; the Sha'at begin to change. We can see it in the ranks. Mercy be upon us.
