The ancient guardians still stood their watch, relics of a past forgotten even before the cataclysm. The Moon Tribe. Satyrs and beasts. Warriors and witches. Wardens to rituals long forgotten, walking steps in dances with meanings long lost. They clung to their old ways, and those of justice. A pastime of fools? Perhaps.
Theirs was to wander paths untrodden with neither map nor guide. Justice remained their only indulgence, justice wrought of trial, not vengeful execution.
Redemption. Bah! The Varn understood that worthless men remained worthless. Yet the Moon Tribe with their horned lords persisted in their ways. For them, the trial of combat told a truer tale of men's hearts than the crimes they committed. Right or wrong? Who can say?
Survival remained the only judge of truth, and the dead wrote no histories. The world had turned inward in its death throes, blind to the future, and consumed by hate.
