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726 BCE / XXVII Ann. Ab Urbe Condita (Winter)

The Dacians had settled far, far away from their fellow mortals in hopes of avoiding battle. But war came to their doorstep all the same.

The fiery Titan Hyperion, aiming to avenge his nephew Atlas, laid siege to the snowy town, leading an army of warriors. The mortal army, braced by the gods fighting next to them, peered over the walls, finally spotting Hyperion as he crossed the frozen River Danube. The army of Olympus poured out of the city, swarming the Titan himself. Swords and axes clanged against Hyperion’s mighty spear, as he repelled wave after wave of mortal attempts. The chaos on the battlefield claimed hundreds of lives — some died to the sword, others to the arrow, and yet others to some latent force that seemed to slow the world around them.

At last, though, as the sun set, the Titan stumbled. His magic totem burst into sparks, and a swift strike from the burly Kratos ended the Titan’s first attack. Hyperion was not done, though. Like Atlas before him, he communed with the mighty Kronos at the Titan camp.

“Master Kronos, there are too many of them,” he said. “What are we going to do?” “Brother Hyperion, the time has come for our most devious tactics,” came the Lord of Time’s reply.

As Hyperion renewed his offensive, the mortals and gods found their ranks infiltrated by traitors — gullible humans who had pledged themselves to Kronos. Though they posed no real threat, tempers flared on Olympus as the fighting wore on. The battle raged day and night, and the heavy Dacian snow fell so thickly it blanketed the blood-stained fields. No side won any ground; each of Hyperion’s attempts to advance were repelled, but his strategy — that of an endless cycle of retreat, as only a Titan could do — kept him alive.

Soon enough, tempers flared on Olympus. The gods argued amongst themselves, as they so often do, but they joined with the mortals in one mighty cry of chorus at their foe:


At last, with both sides exhausted from a full week of unwinnable fighting, the soldiers’ lust for blood began to fade. Hyperion, noting the stalemate, sent fewer and fewer Titan warriors into battle with each attack. As the sun of the eighth day warmed the snowy battlefield, Hyperion could be seen retreating once more — but this time, for good. Dacia was thus spared, but the enemy had not been vanquished.

Truly, a draw.

Sighing deeply (“Gods dammit, not again...”), the frustrated gods returned to Olympus, praying — to themselves, of course — that this War may yet take a turn for the better.