THE PROPHECY OF THE ONE WHO RUNS BOTH WAYS
Spoken in wind. Kept in hoof. Sung in silence.
Long ago, when Halethen fell into the stone sleep, the sky cracked once—and from it came a final wind, a voice braided with time itself. The seers of the Equinari did not write it down. They danced it in circles. They etched it into hoof-tracks. And they waited.
For the One Who Runs Both Ways.
The Words of the Wind:
When the Gate forgets its latch, And fields no longer whisper— When hoof breaks earth in chains, And Myrrenstead is embers—
He shall rise from ruin, Not king, but carrier— Of sword in flame, And shield of stillness—
The Runes shall choose him, The Hoof shall guide him, The Sky shall name him, The Tower shall fear him.
He will not slay his brothers, But unbind them. Not build a kingdom, But shatter a leash.
He shall run both ways— Through shadow and fire, Through memory and mourning, Through the eye of the Overseer.
And when the last hoof strikes stone, The Field shall bloom again.
JASPER, DEATH OF RUNES
It is now said, in secret groves and broken places, that the Runes have chosen. That from the ashes of Myrrenstead, one walks still.
His name is Jasper, called Death of Runes—for his body is marked with the burning script of ancient memory, inked not in ink but light and loss. His voice is quiet, and his sorrow deep.
He carries the sword of Halethen, Calvenhoof, which he unearthed from beneath the storm-cairn of the Horse King's tomb. His armor bears the etched Code, glowing only in the presence of betrayal.
He rides not with armies, but with silence. He does not raise the sword—until needed. He does not seek vengeance—only freedom.
And across the plains, in the marching herds of the Branded, there are rumors—rumors that the red glow dims when he nears. That the Overseer’s gaze clouds. That the centaur hearts begin to remember the gallop, the river, the song.
Jasper does not call himself king.
He is the One Who Runs Both Ways.
And the last hoof has not yet struck stone.
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THE BROTHERS WHO GALLOPED
When Halethen, the Horse King, opened the Gate of Elysian and led his kin into the Runiverse, not all who followed bore his form.
Some came on four legs, vast of body, tempest-strong, their torsos proud and human, but their lower halves wild and hooved. These were the Centaurs, brothers not by shape, but by spirit. They too had galloped across the Elysian Fields—though never in step with the Equinari. The Centaurs had raced in packs, thundered over hill and haze, worshiped stars that moved and drank from rivers of dream.
They did not understand the stillness of Halethen. They called him the Stilled Hoof, and they watched him go with wary reverence, then turned their own way—west of the Gate, where the wilds had not yet bent to reason.
There, in the deep valleys and whispering canyons, they thrived—tribes without walls, ruled by elders who carried longbows and drums, their culture unwritten but not unsung.
And so they lived, parallel but apart.
The Equinari carved stone with law and plough. The Centaurs carved sky with gallop and war cry.
THE BURNING OF MYRRENSTEAD
Centuries later, when Myrrenstead rose from orchard and oath, it stood as a symbol of the old code. The Equinari opened their gates to all who bore the hoof, inviting their four-legged cousins to trade, to share, to remember.
And for a time, peace held.
But something else stirred beneath the land.
Far to the east, the Black Tower had begun to rise—built not by wind or stonecraft, but by goblin industry, cruel ritual, and ancient hunger. The Goblin Overseer, whose name is never spoken, desired more than conquest—he desired loyalty bought in blood, unity forged in desperation.
And he found the centaurs waiting.
When fire fell upon Myrrenstead, the centaur tribes were framed for the act. Smoke coiled from the wheat fields. Innocents burned. The Equinari were too few to defend all. Misunderstanding turned to suspicion; suspicion to fury.
In this storm of grief, the Overseer rode in.
He offered the centaurs weapons made of shadow, visions of revenge, oaths of vengeance, and worst of all—purpose. He played on their pride, their age-old rejection by their two-legged kin, their longing to prove their strength.
He promised to make them kings.
And they listened.
THE FALL AND THE GLOW
Many tribes resisted—but one by one, they knelt.
They drank from black springs. They accepted the red brands. Their eyes began to glow in the dark, embers of the Tower’s will. Their spears turned black and barbed, and their hooves thundered not across plains, but through villages, over ruins, into the dreams of children.
They became The Branded Herd, Spears of the Overseer, Dark-Riders of the Hollowed Way.
No longer did they thunder for the joy of the gallop.
They marched.
They hunted.
They obeyed.
THE WHISPER OF FREEDOM
But not all centaurs fell. Some hid in old valleys, protecting sacred drums. Others refused the red eye and were cast into exile.
And in the high places where few now go, the remaining Equinari watch and wait. Rare and scattered, they whisper among themselves of one foretold in old tongue and wind-signal:
The One Who Runs Both Ways.
A rebirth of Halethen’s spirit—not a king, but a liberator. A warrior not to slay their fallen brothers, but to free them. To awaken the truth buried beneath the brands. To remind all who bear hooves:
“We were made to run, not march. To sing, not shout. To carry, not crush.”
And when the winds shift, the drums of the old centaur tribes beat faintly in the hills, in rhythm with something older than war, older than darkness—
The Song of the Hoof.
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