The Great Kahn sat on his fur-clad throne. With beard now grayed from a full life, his lips part, his great Kahn tongue slams and all who look think, which of his two great sounds will this be?

In his life the Great Kahn is known to lead with two sounds; his war cries and his great truths.

Thrown like a stone that lands in the Marsh-land, he grew to be a man in, the great Kahn’s screams splash in the form of a great thick wave on they who must hear it. It was his key, his strength. This cry. The great Kahn, when but a lad, showed this skill. In his weak stage of new life, the hunt for mice, and small pray kept his heart till the next beat. He used his gifts; his stare, one that would go on to spot a man eyes on horse-back from a great far poach. He used his hush, one that would go on to have him tip-toe through camps of kin who wished blood of him. And he used his cry, and this was his great strength. This was his cry.

His truths could come from his lips, and like a great wind, one that goes with the same strength, the same tug, as those from the great steppe of his life. His words push with the same force that guides the great clouds, in his guide, the blue sky. This was his great strength his truths.

Now he sits on his fur clad throne. All wait to hear what noise the great Kahn will make. He yawns. This is not a yawn of the great Kahn but the man Tennujin.