Transcript
Narrator (0:00)
Previously on the Chosen People. And here he stood, Saul of Kish, bearer of a warrior's frame, yet a
Narrator/Announcer (0:10)
stranger to the kind of battle that
Narrator (0:12)
would test his soul.
Saul (0:16)
What? What do you want with me?
Samuel (0:18)
It's not about what I want, but the people. As it turns out, you're the one whom the entire nation has been pining after the hope of Israel. Look upon the one the Lord has chosen.
Narrator (0:36)
The crowd erupted into a cacophony of praise. Trumpets blared, and the voices of the people rose like a storm. Long live the king. They shouted. Long live King Saul. For now, Saul said nothing. He stood tall, letting the moment consume him. But deep within, the seeds of pride had been planted, and Samuel, watching from the corner of his eye, saw them begin to take root. The air over Jabesh Gilead was heavy with smoke, thick and choking like the breath of a dragon. Ash rained down from the heavens, settling on the ruined fields and bloodied streets. The red sun burned dimly behind the smoke, casting a sinister hue over the scene. At the heart of this devastation stood King Nahash of Ammon, mounted on a massive warhorse as black as a starless knight. He surveyed the destruction with a predator's satisfaction. His armor, dark leather reinforced with iron scales, hugged his broad chest, and his thick mane of unkempt hair framed a face both cruel and proud. His eyes, cold and predatory, swept over the trembling villagers as if they were little more than chattel. Behind him stood the vast host of his army, their spears bristling like a deadly forest, their banners snapping in the foul wind. The men of Jabesh had tried to resist. Farmers, shepherds, and stable boys had rushed to defend their homes with scythes and crude blades, but they were crushed swiftly.
Nahash (2:29)
Sheep. All of you. Sheep.
Narrator (2:32)
Nahash rode into the center of the village. No one dared to meet his gaze. His soldiers marched behind him in perfect formation, shields gleaming, swords still wet with the blood of the brave but foolish defenders. Stopping in the village square, Nahash banged his sword against his. The king tilted his head back, inhaling the acrid smoke with something close to pleasure. His lips curled into a crooked smile as he turned to one of his generals.
Nahash (3:04)
Bring me the elders. If they've not fled like cowards, drag them here by their beards.
