[center][i]Engraved upon a stone stele, at the oasis of Prophet's Retreat[/i][/center]

Thrice here by these sweet waters did rest he who was called Giwabi: first alongside his great host on the eve before he did battle, then amongst the survivors of that terrible din as they were scattered back to their homeland as leaves flying in the wake of the thunder, and last not as a king (as he had been in one life) but as a blind and weathered hermit in his final life with sand-dry skin skin burnt brown like mud bricks left in the sun.

The first time that he knelt in the shade of the palms besides the spring, he drank deeply, and recognizing the divinity of this place from the purity of its  waters, prayed to the spirits: 'Let the trouble I wear upon my brow fade, and roll off like beads of sweat. Let my head stand tall, my chest broad and mighty, my arms and hands be true. Let the warriors look to me and see the glory and might that can be theirs if only they seize it, and let me guide these many-hundred to victory over the sorcerers and outlaws. Let the feral beasts who drain the life of this corner of my endless kingdom, they who defy their master as savage dogs who harry their own shepherd, let them perish by our hands!'

But only a great gust of wind answered him then, and it blew sand into the great king's ears and dust into the pure water that held his reflection. And then the brash king realized that no god could 'let him' have his victory on a whim -- victory was his to fight for, and the fight would be his to endure. Nothing worthwhile was claimed without a hardfought struggle.

And in that spirit, thinking a battle inevitable and that it would be only by force of will and might of arm that he could attain victory, he did not speak -- such words were but the dust on the wind, worth less even than prayer. When he drew up his lines of men and met the ranks of the one called Uhulmikown, he answered his enemy's hail not with negotiation but with a raised spear and a roar that ordered a charge.