Once, there was a land, untouched by the hands of civilization, a virgin expanse of lush greenery and sparking streams that flowed as if diamonds were being scattered by the generous hands of the universe itself. This land was a safe haven for the creatures dwelling in it, a paradisiacal sanctuary where harmony reigned supreme.
The land was divided into two halves, like two halves of a perfect, untamed apple. On one side lived the Tuvans, a tribe of strong, resilient men and women whose lives were devoted to the natural, elemental rhythm of the land. They lived in harmony with the land, their lives intricately intertwined with the very soil they trod upon. They cultivated it, hunted on it, built their homes on it, and buried their loved ones in it. The land was as much a part of them as they were a part of the land.
On the other side of the sparkling river that formed a natural border, resided the Horolians. The Horolians were a tribe of artists, thinkers, and dreamers. They drew their inspiration from the land, their art and philosophy deeply ingrained with the colors, textures, and sounds of the natural world around them. Their songs echoed through the valleys, their stories painted on rocky canvases, and their dances mirrored the ebbs and flows of the river, the swaying of the grass, and the flight of the birds.
Both tribes had one unspoken rule passed down from generation to generation: the land did not belong to them; they belonged to the land. This mutual respect and understanding of the land fostered peace and harmony between the Tuvans and the Horolians, a harmony that echoed through the entire land.
However, harmony is a delicate fabric, and even the smallest of tremors can cause ripples that distort its perfect equilibrium. The tremor in this case was not an earthquake or a volcanic eruption, but the arrival of a third tribe, the Kozars.
The Kozars were an ambitious, power-hungry tribe from a barren, infertile land far away. Their leader, a man of towering presence and a gaze as cold and hard as steel, was known as Morzar. Morzar was a man of many words, words that held the power to sway even the sturdiest of minds. He had a dream – a dream of a thriving land, rich with resources and beauty, a land that he and his tribe could call their own. And his eyes were set on the land of the Tuvans and the Horolians.
The arrival of the Kozars disrupted the peaceful coexistence of the Tuvans and the Horolians. Morzar’s words of ambition, prosperity, and domination stirred anxiety and fear among the tribes. The Kozars proposed a new rule – the land belonged to those who could seize it and defend it. This stark contrast to their inherited belief of belonging to the land caused a rift among the Tuvans and the Horolians.
As the Kozars began to stake their claim, cutting down trees, hunting excessively, and marking territories, the Tuvans and Horolians found themselves at crossroads. Should they fight, resist the invasion and uphold their belief, or should they succumb and adapt to the new rule of land possession?
The ensuing struggle between the two philosophies led to a war, not of tribes, but of ideologies. The peaceful tribes, for the first time, found themselves in a battle, not just for their land, but their way of life, their very identity. The once harmonious land was now a battleground echoing with cries of war and reeking of blood and betrayal.
As the war waged on, the land suffered. The once sparkling river ran red with blood, the lush greenery replaced by jagged, barren patches of earth,
