Oppression will make or break the character and constitution of a person. It is when one is oppressed that one makes the most significant choice of one's life. That choice: To roll over and die in the cradle of oppression or to stand up and look oppression in the eye and dare it to continue. To rise up from the ashes of the down trodden and soar above the limits and boundaries of confinement.
It was a choice the people faced, a choice they made that brought about the ancient battle field, named later and forever after called Felt Helte (Field of Heroes). It was their choice that forever marred this section of our world. And even then, a mar to some is a piece of art to another. Great rocks pierced upwards through the otherwise level plain of Felt Helte. The jutting stones pointed toward the sky some of them daring to reach over 30 feet in the attempt to reach the sun with their lament for those that perished on these grounds. Others, smaller yet no less important, stretched a mere five feet skyward leaving some story bards convinced those were to honor the smaller races that raged against the dying of freedom's lights.
They fought, all of them fought rising up from their oppressor's chains and declaring their independence against those that would dare insult the very nature of free will. And not one of them left the battlefield. Every warrior from both sides remained here to this very day trapped forever in their last moments. It was the bloodiest battle ever fought in this world and when it was over, when the last two warriors fell at the tip of the other's sword... that is when the earth shook and the rocks pierced through the flesh of the earth to rise up and honor a hard fought battle. Upon some of the pointed stone spears were helmets, taken upward upon entrance and never discarded as they rose heavenward. Beside them lay the shields of the warriors, the spears and swords, arrows and axes lay in the immortalized bleached grips of those who once carried them into battle. It had taken centuries for the bodies to deteriorate, centuries of stories and memorials, centuries of reminding those that lived freely because of those that died bravely of the cost. It was as though the entire place were entombed such was the natural preservation of the area.
Scavengers had not dared set claw or talon upon the land. Vegetation did not grace the blood stained soil with coverage. The wind rarely even touched it's refreshing breath upon the brows of those no longer needing encouragement. It is barren this Felt Helte. It is a lonely stretch of land; lonely, despite the fact that more than one echo of the past remains here. It is chilling though it never snows here. It is sacred. Only the sun and moons dare touch their rays upon this sacred ground and even then it as if it spotlights their efforts. Just as candles will be lit to emphasize the importance of a piece in a museum such was the way the sun and moons touched upon the battle field of those that fought and won their peace, their independence, the rights of those they fought for to live and die as they chose to.
Very few have entered. Most will stand at the edge as though some invisible fence prohibits their entrance. They will stare speechlessly across the vastness of this once lush and fertile field. They will stare at the giant stone spears jutting up out of the earth heaven ward. They will take note of the small as well as the large and they will feel the awesome chill in knowing that at least once in this world's history did all the races unite to defeat freedom's enemy.
Credit to: GMineyCricket for description.
