From Maer’s lookout, weather was the only limit to visibility. He could see the Cliffs of Certainty and the Beast Jaw Mountains beyond, to the north, the Passive Plains to the south and east, and the Washing Sea to the west, beyond the village. Under normal circumstances, a fire would be lit atop the watchtower for the villagers to see in the event of impending danger. On this particular night, no fire would burn. The watchman knew what must be done.
Rain stung his face and skin while he ran, as fast as if hundreds of lives were in his care. Sharp edges of stones and thorns tore at his feet. With every extended stride, the savior of souls sprinted down the twenty-five mile mountainous path to the first relay point. He knew he was pushing his body beyond its limit; to the limit of his will. Everyone he’d ever known, or knew existed, was lying peacefully in Athon.
His chest heaved and rattled.
His eyes turned red.
The fire of forged steel burned his muscles and he felt weak.
When he reached the home of Procla Eem, the watchman collapsed – never to rise agiain. But not before passing along brief details of the horror he’d seen. Eem was able to warn all of the villagers and an evacuation was quickly executed. They all had lived because of the determination of Maer of Athon. The villagers never saw what threatened them, but the Athoners knew they were alive because of him.
Every year, from that day forward, a race was held along the path of Maer. It is held in his honor.
Fast-forward a few thousand years and we’re still running marathon races. Interesting side note; Maer actually had been suffering from a prolonged exposure to toxic black mold. His mountaintop lookout post was the home of a dank, rotten mold orgy. Stachybotris chartarum had caused delusions, hallucinations, breathing problems, weakness, and the agonizing death of Maer of Athon. He died because he protected them, not to protect them. Neat.
That’s what this original manuscript says, right?
ancient text
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