the men of the mountain

mosin and nagant

“You see I belong to the mosin, a race of warriors from the mountainous nation of Bavaria known for their intelligence and skill as blacksmiths and weapon makers. Above all else war was something they were enamoured to and it was custom that for a boy of 15 to become man of 16 using his bare hands and the ways of bare hand combat he must find and kill one of the many different tribesman that would often wander along the mountains. Their xenophobia knew no bounds and they saw all other races of men as inferior and weak. But there was an exception the nagant another race of strong warriors but these were more wise and peace loving then their fierce neighbours.
Countless stories told of their great strength in martial practise as well as pride and honour. But they preferred not to fight despite the many ways of fighting they had they used more for a way to unify and bring peace to themselves and others. An old legend tells of a great war which was spawned when the nagant reached out to mosin through diplomacy and trading with them. However it was not their place as they had had conflicts with the dangerous mosin and were punished in such a way that they would abandon any conflict and offer a great truce. The mosin had saw their resources like various great heaps of food like spherical balls of green with red inside as well as fine fabrics and their land as a whole. When the mosin turned to violence to fill their desire the nagant defended their forefathers land with great courage and loyalty.
After what felt like a centuries of war the leaders agreed to a truce to share the lands under a monastic rule, the monastery, however they still do not trust each other and this carried on even in the present day.” Serey eased himself from his position “quite the story but I have one as well that might answer your question about why can’t they get along well. “ Serey took a calm breath and carefully took of the lid of one of the legions of tanks in his room, out of this he took a creature that was a long rope of wearing an armour of old grey and sacred black. It coiled about on his hand lagging its thin tongue shaped like fork in a curious manner reminiscent to how the devil shakes his trident and sneers.