On a first glance, this was a battlefield like any other. Armies on both sides, bleeding and dying for a reason unknown to the common soldier. Their kings and queens safely in their distant castles, unperturbed by the struggle of the men that would lay their lives down for them in the coming days and weeks.

Yet, something was different about this one. A small difference, but one that would change the course of history forever.

Among the groups of soldiers falling to the ground in pools of blood, was a Man. Well, calling it a Man would be an overstatement, it was barely more than a shadow of an old man, shriveled and small, his once illustrious golden armour now rusted and faded, the golden mask broken, the scarlet plume upon his helmet small and unkempt.

Standing there with a hunch, the Old Man was not part of any army kicking up dust around him, and was there simply to enjoy the simphony of battle cries and screams. It has been centuries since he last appeared on a battlefield, not as a whisper, but a full body spectre, and a full millenia since he witnessed such glory on the field. There was no doubt in his mind that this time the ritual would be successful. He has seen to it.

They have served him well, these mortals...His children. The half fairy, now on his deadbed, the foolish queen of the 100 nations, the pale people from the island, the masters of time from the east, and further still, the owl people and the spacemen, waiting like vultures for scaps, the cannibal raiders, the eternally warring sea people, and most of all, the idiotic tree rats. They have all served Him well so far, and they will continue doing so for centuries to come.

As time went on, the silhouette of the Old Man slowly changed, growing bigger and bulkier. The cracks in His armour slowly mended themselves, missing pieces growing back. The plume of His helmet filled out and regained it's vibrant blood red colour. The Man looked down at his hands, smiling behind His mask. His leather gloves, that were previously many sizes too big, now fit snuggly upon His big palms. Under His armour, he could feel His muscles growing, returning back to their former glory...

This was it.

For but a single moment, the entire battlefield went quiet. It was as if the world itself stopped, waiting with baited breath at what was about to happen. And it was in this moment that the Man, for the first time in a millenia, felt soil under His boots. He felt the brush of wind on his neck and He smelled the blood and gunpowder in the air. He was back in the world of the living.

As the catalystic moment passed, the Man took a deep breath, filling his mighty lungs with the air of the battlefield, and, arching back, unleashed a cataclysmic roar. It was a sorrowful cry for a millenia wasted, and a joyous celebration of the thousands dead around him. As it travelled the battlefield, the men who heard it became invigorated, clashing with their opponents with a new-found bloodlust.

He then spoke.

It was a mighty voice, heard all across the world, by both nobles and peasants alike, carried on the wind that swept over luscious fields and peaceful forests, lonely mountains and bustling cities. There was no man, woman or child that did not hear his voice that day. Mothers clutched their babes to them in fear, daughters fell on their knees crying, while fathers and sons were left trembling with excitement over thoughts of bloodshed and glory.
His voice was heard even in the heavens above, the myriad of gods turning their attention to the small blue world for the first time in centuries, not out of curiosity, but out of fear.

THE ERA OF WORDS AND PEACE HAS ENDED!
I USHER IN THE AGE OF STEEL AND BLOOD!
FOR MY NAME IS WARANON!
AND I HAVE RETURNED!