Library Challenge - March "War"

[loulabelle]

We have a fun writing assignment every month in my writing group where we pick a topic based on the coming month and write an SciFi/Fantasy/SpecFic/Horror story from the theme prompt. There's so much creativity here I thought I'd extend the idea here if anyone is interested to try. No word limit, it can be Alfa Fic or your own original fic. Post here and we can see how many different interpretations there are on the same theme (always interesting to see!)

March's theme is War, for the god of war Mars

Have fun!

[Heero]

A story about a fat drow vs. a sentient, krispy, marshmallow treat is in the works...

[Galadorn]

Decades of grueling hardship and training prepared him for this day. Missions across the realm only he would bare the burden of and for. All alone. Always alone. Success not a soul would know of. Mystery shrouded over his 'work' would, for the masses, be twisted... warped and shit on forever. Little did they know he was necessary. He was not expendable.

Trodden on by society, his actions.... his orders... to serve goodness for freedom... for the safety of strangers forgotten by the very souls he laid his life before countless times to preserve.

The scars of countless battles and torture appeared along his shredded frame like a road map of strife. And the roads were long. He never flinched. His life was always forfeit... his happiness... his comfort. Most never knew why. Only he knew. They never had a twinkling of courage anywhere near his to even ask... why? He stood a solitary pillar of personal power.

This time. It was different. This time... there were no orders. Already beaten down, his drive upon this day fueled only by his own choices. His own loss.

They killed her. Sharing but a single kiss moments before. One he’d never have asked for but was given of her own will. He made her a promise. Shattered instantly like a mirror of trust tossed down a flight of stone steps.

It had to be swept up. What he planned was unthinkable. But for him, his whole existence, until now, had prepared him for it.

And he would not fail.

Slowly he reached down, lifting his 'lucky charm'. It would have glistened if the night’s blessing had not fallen so soon. Still bloodied, he thrust it into a leather sheath and paused. Then tying it to his side his tired gaze looked toward his bow. Muddy and dark, it lay there as if in anticipation of what was to come. His tool of ultimate, silent retribution and death. Grasping it with knuckles of white, he felt its weight, perfect. But no grin would appear on his face. Sliding it over one shoulder it rested.

Around his neck, he slipped a charm. A beautiful jade statuette affixed to a crude leather string. Her lucky charm. Not so lucky… As he tied it tightly around his neck it flushed into his soul renewed strength. As if she and he… in life and death… shared a greater power in only minutes together than all of his enemies who waited for him.

Finally, he reached down only one more time. Lifting a long ripped slice of her dress, he wrapped it around his forehead. Red silk. Its message? Blood for blood. He is ready.

John Rambo. Was ready.

[johnlewismcleod]

Walk me out to greet dawn's return this morning...
Let me see the dew resplendent on the glen...
Speak not more of fallen friends this morning...
Speak not of loss nor sundered dreams again...

I wish only to hear birds greeting the dawning...
In gladness for retreat of haunted night...
Speak not of valour nor of triumph this morning...
Just hold my hand and guide me toward the light...

Let me see no mothers weeping this fine morning...
I would see no soldiers nor banners raised on high...
Shield mine eyes from broken ground this morning...
Let no grave nor smoldered pyre assail my sight....

If you must speak, dear, speak softly as a whisper...
And speak only of our love and hearth and home...
On the morrow we must gird again for war, dear...
But today let us look only far beyond...

[t-ice]

As twilight gives in to the dark of night, the honored warrior, the defender of the realm, asks his servant to put more wood into the hearth. For long, silently the warrior looks to the regalia of his honor, set up on display against the opposing wall. He walks over to the decorated plate armor, which stands as tall as he does, head to toe. With ease he hoists a massive shield and a longsword from their stands, and turns to face the hearth in silent contemplation.

Towering giants he remembered, brute ogres, and massive hosts of orderly hobgoblins. But above all, he remembered the faces of a thousand men marching to his order, and behind each, he thinks he sees a devastated mother, a weeping wife. So that ten thousand may live, so that the realm may yet again prosper. So they tell him, so he tells himself. He remembers the weakness and doubt, and the face of resolve that was to mask it.

A question from a face of divine beauty he remembered, "What becomes a man after his greatest work is done?", and the unsatisfying answer. His body may not fit the armor of his glory, but the strength in his arms remains. He puts down his arms to their racks of display, and slowly retreats to the warmth of his chamber.

Restfully he sleeps, and come the morrow, he raises nay crook nor ache in his frame. With but a few steps he strides to his gear of battle, and his armor finds its rightful place on him with the ease. This dawn his door leads not to the bustle of the street, not to his temple, but to a vast expanse of fields and hills, forests and mountains.

A raven-haired lady in flowing red robes points her sword to a gap in a rank of men, each geared for battle. The honored warrior, the defender of the realm, lowers his head and takes his place.

The fight continues in Warrior's Rest.

[loulabelle]

Galadorn
JLM
T-Eyes

Keep them coming!

[Swift]

I just saw this. This is awesome. I will write something.

[Uniskorne]

"Take only what you can carry."

So simple. So easy for someone who will have a home to return to at night to say.

So easy to become bitter. So easy to forget they're only doing their duty. Everything is so easy except choosing what can be left behind. Suddenly, everything has meaning, sentimental value. You plan for it all to be gone while hoping it'll be there when you get back. You tell yourself it's easy to choose, just do it.

Then, you see the furniture that your Father made you. Those blankets, your Grandmother made those. Your Mother gave you those plates for your wedding. The kids don't want to leave their toys behind--how do you tell them to choose which mean more to them? You realize too fast that you can only carry the necessities, maybe a few items of sentimentality--the charcoal portraits of your kids, your husband's medals, the few pieces of jewelry you own...

Last minute preparations. Stuff things under floorboards and in the attic. Maybe the brutes won't think to look there. If it burns, what can you do? Load the cart with what little you can justify. Put the kids on the back. Grit your teeth and pull. Swallow the tears. Try to be hopeful. Watch as the lines of soldiers march past. Be hopeful.

Everything that has any meaning is on this wagon.

The reports have only been getting worse, though. Places that shouldn't fall have fallen. Every day, you watched it get closer and prayed it wouldn't come here. Don't come here, please, gods, don't let it come here. You suddenly feel guilty for all those times you were relieved that a war broke out somewhere else. They could handle it better. Well, it's your turn now.

Smile for the kids.Yes, honey, we'll come right back home when it's over. All the time, your mind is playing a cruel game with you. Playing scenarios. One scenario is you return home to a little damage, things broken, missing, all of it not important. The other scenario is you return to a charred husk and have to start over. Where do you go? You start making a list of all your relatives and friends, but they live nearby. If it happens to you, it'll happen to them.

You look around at the people fleeing with you. Everyone has the same wild-eyed panic, barely contained behind manic smiles. This is it. They know it, too. Your Grandparents spoke of such horrors happening years ago, but you never thought you'd see it in your lifetime. Prayed you'd never see it in your lifetime. But, here it is, and, suddenly, you understand why your Grandparents flinch at the sound of thunder sometimes. Why they don't talk about it. Why some words are not said.

Days pass. You settle into an uneasy peace behind solid stone walls. It's another world. You see the secondhand smoke of your life playing out. Donations being taken up for the refugees. News about others who decided to stay come in and it isn't good. It all seems so far away. But your world is being destroyed. You know it is even though you're hoping it isn't. You listen on pins and needles for the day when the guards tell you it's alright to return home.

But, it doesn't come.

Roads are blocked. Roads are gone. This area is still occupied--no one is allowed in or out. Troops are moving here to secure this area. What about home? What about my home? No one seems to know. No one has any news. About home. About family. About anything. Rumors become your best answers.

Such and such has been razed to the ground. You can see the smoke from here. The enemy was spotted entering this place and you don't want to know how many are dead. So and so's father/brother/uncle/relative barely got out of X alive. He said the troops are gathering up looters and executing them.

Then, slowly, news returns. This road is open only to here. This town is destroyed. This town is gone. The death toll is X. Troops are deployed here to help those who stayed behind. But, one question still remains...

What about my home?

Finally, the news comes: You can go home.

Your heart is flying as you travel the long, slow road home. Destruction is all around you the closer you get, but you still have hope. You can rebuild. You're tough. Your village is a wreck, but people are already making do with tents near their homes. Most places show no outward sign of damage. Hope builds.

Then, you come to your house.

And it's a burned-out husk. The furniture is ashen skeletons. The blankets gone. The plates smashed. The toys burned and shredded.

Silence...within which you ask the gods, "Now, what?"

Somewhere, deep inside, you receive the answer, "Take only what you can carry."

So, there, in the middle of hell, you embrace your little angels and weep.

[CloudDancing]

http://www.alandfaraway.org/forums/view ... =6&t=47096
An excerpt from "I Am The Voice"

“She's dying! Help help! You bastards, you let her go...” The angry words echoed through time into the past and bounced back as Elrien tugged open the human girl's clothes. The males jumped over her body and twisted past Elrien to take on the Orcs in the underground temple as she screamed hoarsely. She pressed on the hole in Kendra's chest, Elrien's hand at an arrow wound in her own side.

Her frightened thoughts struggled inside her to give her hands action. This was war. And then the Elven healer knew the minute she touched the girls ravaged chest, her spirit had fled. This was war. Her head drooped down as she cursed in despair.

Before her, ripped apart like so many carcass she had seen, was Kendra Barrow, an excited young priestess of Illmater. Elrien breathed in and out so quickly her voice became dry and hoarse. Flashes of the girl bouncing and clinging to Keren the Orc-speaker. They spoke how she so happily wanted to claim him as her own. Elrien had learned from just a short talk with her so much about humans. Now she was dead.

The pale haired Wood Elf hissed, rocking herself and rocking the broken body, whispering “Corr, Corr, make me strong, I cannot bear to loose you again. Please not again”

Her father, his simply braided black hair shifting over the metal band he work to keep it back, leaned over and took her hand and held it in his two calloused ones.
"Take care of yourself. The Elders say we are again at War with the Orcs. Every family will be called to sacrifice. But promise me you will take no undue risks. Not like..*she* did. Promise me Elrien."

Elrien looked up awkwardly and nodded, squeezing his careful hand.

"I will father. I will come home to you. And I will end this war."
http://youtu.be/Zcps2fJKuAI

[Dorn]

An old thing i wrote about my Red Knight pally in the loudwater shadewar (in libarary)

The smoke stained wind tore his hair loose from it’s binding. The knight drew a gauntlet across his face settling it back and smudging the black and red stains on his face. His shining white tabard now smudged grey and smatterd with darker red and hung in tatters. His silver armour scorched and dented, his sword notched and his shield arm hanging weakly at his side. He was one of the most fortunate.

He looked over the ranks of soldiers that trooped back towards the stronghold behind them. The acrid wind tore at their banners and tabards from behind them as if chasing them back to their final defence. Many supported a comrade who was able to limp home, others waited groaning or cried out in pain and sorrow as men ran doggedly back and forth with stretchers taking those that could be saved home. So many more lay on the valley floor and would never see the gates again.

He looked back down at the lad he knelt beside. Glancing briefly again at the destroyed leg, then back into the young mans wet eyes set in terribly pale, tear streaked, cheeks. The boy sobbed, valiantly holding back screams of pain before his commander. As the lad stilled, the knight rested his hand over his charges eyes and murmured a soft prayer for guidance on the boys next, final, journey. Moving his hand away the large blue eyes stared into space without focus, his chest no longer rattling with the weak breath. How many times had he spoken this prayer in recent days.

Drawing a discarded cloak over the body he stood and stared into the valley before him. The burnt smell from the funeral pyres mixed with the sickly sweet odours of those whose bodies had not been recovered for cremation made drawing breath a constant reminder of the direness of the last moon. The number of scavengers wheeling on the thermals above the valley told the story of the numbers slain for miles around.

He walked on past the lines of retreating soldiers. Even in defeat they held themselves with pride and their march was as ordered as the wounded would allow. Several looked at the passing knight and saluted or called out and he returned their calls with as much bravado and promise as he could muster without being false. Falsity these men of war did not deserve. Where their officers had perished soldiers with no rank but respect gave orders without waiting for formal promotions, and their men followed without question. There was no time for such civilities as their defence of the gate would be needed in hours, not days.

He left the road and strode to the wooden battlements. There the last rearguard stood resolutely facing the valley. Their faces were held high and their stance proud. Only moving to bend head as the clerics walked amongst them whispered prays and assurances of honour in the realms beyond this world. He again murmured a prayer to his goddess for them all. Certainly She and her Lord father would welcome these truest men of war. The last of those soldiers retreating past below them. Torn banners dipped in salute to those above who would see them safely to the city they must in turn protect with their lives.

Then they were gone and the only sound was the howling wind whipping up out of the valley and into the guards eyes as they peered into the smoky haze. For a quarter of the morning it seemed to remain such and then as the sun reached its zenith orange through the smoke they heard it.

Sounds began as yelled undistinguishable orders. Or the cry of a horse. Or the distant crash of some weapon on a shield. The sounds ofthe enemy drew ever closer and more often seemingly coming from all sides. The captain spoke quiet words to his men to calm, that the valley and the wind played tricks. They all knew this was not true.

Silence came. Again the smoke and wind held reign over the valley as again they saw nothing but the irregular outline of the valley floor covered with the bodies of their own and their enemies men. A movement below and the defenders strained forwards to see a solitary man walk forward encased in red armour. He surveyed the defenders lined above at the valley end for a moment then raised his sword, hilt against his forehead the blade reaching upwards in salute. He walked back into the smoke.

Then it began. All around them the repetitive pounding of impossible numbers of booted feet sounded out towards them echoing off the valley sides and seemingly coming from everywhere. Knuckles whitened amongst the last defenders. Then through the smoke and haze they began to see them. This time there was not strike force. This time the entire army came to them. Ranks upon ranks of the enemy walked in purposeful lines in the valley floor and up both sides to the ridges above. Thousands of black armoured infantry followed by chanting men in long black cloaks and others tracing arcane symbols of fire in the air. He knew if they each killed two score men they would still not win this battle. This army did not come to continue the battle, they came to end it.

‘Tell me mam I’ll be late in fer dinner tonight ay Cap’n?’ a ripple of laughter ran through the proud defenders.

‘I’d not survive the scolding Harney’ came the easy answer, ‘Well I don’t think I want to wait for these bastards to walk all the way here. How ‘bout you lads? Shall we scare them some?’ The grizzled men echoed the affirmative and they moved to the crest of the hill. He went with them drawing his blade once more and feeling honoured as these warriors made way for him to stand aside their Captain and lead them. He shared a wide smile with a spearman next to him.

He looked at the black ranked wall closing inexorably on them. He thought a final quiet prayer to his goddess as the Captain raised his sword crying the name Loudwater. The men screamed back that cry and surged downwards in a furious and oblivious charge. He to ran, outpacing the other men imbued with the power of his Lady, as he ran to meet her…

[Swift]

War comes in many forms, not all fought with guns or swords.

“I want the house, the car and the children.”

“What? That is ludicrous! That is not even close to fifty-fifty that we agreed to.”

“So? Either you accept it, or I get my lawyer to take you for everything.”

“Just you try it, whore.”

David and Edith Thornton had endured a rocky marriage. Childhood sweethearts, high school prom king and queen, one a doctor (her), the other a corporate executive (him) and three children, all excelling in their schooling and extra-curricular sports. A pre-nup had been signed by both, though it seemed to not matter now. There was little you could not get out of with the right lawyer and large amounts of money which they both had.

Each night had become routine. Edith would come home around seven and relieve the nanny, David would come home sometime after nine. The children went to bed at ten, the arguments began at ten thirty. As the months passed they became louder and longer with both spitting venomous words at the other. Accusations were made ranging from theft to infidelity and neither was above digging up dirt on the other. When Edith asked for a divorce, David could not agree fast enough.

“That’s right, walk away like you always do. Go back to that little slut you call your secretary” Edith called out as he turned away towards the door.

“Screw you. I have better things to do than sleep around, unlike you. How many days in a row has the pool boy come to clean the pool?” David knew his response was weak, but he would never let her get the last word, not anymore. For his efforts, he had to duck to avoid a rapidly approaching glass that ended up smashing harmlessly against the wall behind him.

“If you ever come back, I swear to god David, I’ll…”

“You’ll what? Huh? What are you going to do? Kick me out? Its my damn house.”

“Just get the fuck out of here” she hissed sharply at him, "I dont ever want to see you again!". He did not need another invitation, slamming the front door behind him. As Edith knelt down to clean up the broken glass, she heard the tyres of their Mercedes squeal as David speed off up the normally quiet street.

“Mommy? Are you alright?”

Tears began to slowly trickle down Ediths cheek as she stood and turned around, patting her cheeks dry as she composed herself. Her youngest daughter stood at the top of the grand stairs in her fleecy animal pyjamas. Her favourite teddy bear was tucked under her arm and her little face was full of concern. Amongst all the turmoil in her life, the sight warmed her heart, like a weary soldier finding a flower among the destruction on the field of battle.

“Mommy is alright baby. Go back to bed, you have school in the morning. You want to be ready for your big test don’t you?”

The young girl smiled and nodded her head, all concern dropping from her. “Yes mommy. I love you.” Before Edith could reply, she was gone, leaving only the brief sound of her feet padding back to her room. “I love you too sweetie” she whispered softly to herself.

David never came home.
---------

Six months later they met again in the local divorce court. Time had not been kind to either of them. David had left his powerful position within his company, while Edith had taken a long leave of absence from the hospital she worked at. Both looked worn down and tired by the lengthy process. The judge sighed and shook his head as he sat down and looked between them.

“Will the counselors approach the bench please?”

Two men dressed in finely made and sharply cut suits stood and walked forward. Each was being paid and exorbitant fee by their clients to win as many concessions from the other as possible.

“Counselors” the judge began in a hushed voice, “your clients have been in arbitration for two months since the last hearing and more than six months in total. Please tell me you have come to an agreement?”

Neither lawyer spoke.

The judge sighed again. “Is it still the children?”

“Your honor” began Ediths lawyer, “my client finds it only fair that she be granted full custody of all three children. She has been their main provider, as it has been her income that has gone towards their schooling and other basic needs. She also has far more flexible work hours compared to her former husband.”

Davids lawyer frowned. “My client disagrees and will fight his children that he loves.”

The judge dismissed them both. Before they had even sat down he made his pronouncement. “One more month of arbitration. If the agreement is not resolved, I will make the decision myself.” He slammed the gavel down.

Ediths heart sank. David stood up calmly and shook hands with his lawyer before leaving the court room, not letting his eyes stray once to the woman he used to love.

The judge watched on as Edith slowly trudged out of the court room long after her lawyer had left, pondering the decision he may have to make. As the doors closed and left the court empty of all but himself, he mused quietly to no one in particular.

“If I do not end this war, it will end them both.” He stood quietly and walked out of the side door toward his chamber.

[danielmn]

It is the soft hum of mosquitoes. The aged man looked upon the small dance of the full moons light upon the water with a grim expression. Perhaps it was because he could only look upon it with one eye…the other had long lost its use near thirty springs before. An honor and a curse it was, relying on traps instead of arrow to claim ones dinner. Perhaps it was the annoyance itself of the humming bloodsuckers…the winter had been mild, and the frogs come early. Good for the fields for certain, but a mild winter can come to claim more life during spring than a deep winter ever could. Perhaps it was the smell in the air, one he was all too acquainted with. He was no city born, and what’s more, he’d served his time in the rank and file. The acrid tang, setting the mouth to salivate and taste the iron taste remembered from so long ago. He looked to the dark waters that flowed into the smallish pond. He felt it in the air, an echo of the thundering that had occurred that day. The tremor that had sent all animal into hiding. No deer, no coney.

It is the call of the crow, nestled in the trees. Hundreds of crows, bellies full, the beating of wings and the fighting over perches for a meal long since over. It would begin again on the morrow, but for tonight, they contented themselves upon their perches in the trees, cawing to one another as if in jest…what fools men were. The grizzled man turned from the pond, heading upstream into the trees, as a few of the blackened birds belted their obnoxious cacophony at him. Trespasser. The stream was slightly swollen from days before, but it was more a runoff between hills than anything, likely going dry in any appreciable lack of rain. There was little evidence of what had occurred beyond, except for the darkness of the waters. He made his way along the ravine for the while, and then up a hill as the trees broke.

It is the buzz of flies. Swarms. And then the smell rolls over. The man doubles for a moment, emptying his stomach as the wind shifted direction, bringing the ripeness to his nose. Water rolled forth from him. Not the worst smell, by far. A day, perhaps two. Another two and he would have smelled it at the pond, even before the other tell-tale signs. He quietly composed himself, looking down upon the vale in the sacred light. Glints of metal, distorted effigies of honor and bravery. Things men fool themselves with. No honor here…just the sound of distant moans, and the occasional cry of pain. Fools all around.

It is the death of dreams. The sacrifice of fatherhood. Children to be raised as best they could be. No tales would be told of this sight. No mention of this. For to mention it, to describe it….would make all never want to see it. This sight…reserved for a special few. Those who will wake in cold sweats, screams still in their ears. Those who share silent stares with one another, as if communicating with the mind, instead of the mouth…their thoughts here, for long years to come. The man shakes himself from his own past, his memories flooding to seize him by the throat a moment, only to release their grip slowly.

It is opportunity. The man slowly begins picking over the eternal. A few good finds, would mean food for a month. The hunger raged inside him...a battle of its own.

[loulabelle]

The thing I love about these challenges, is the variety of stories that come from them. Thanks everyone who participated, I loved reading your stories!! <3 My group meets tonight so April's challenge will be posted soon. It will probably be frivolous, as is our trend for April.

[loulabelle]

I "finished" mine at 3am last night after yet another late night on BG. It's super rough, but I think it has potential. It's also accidentally SoIF inspired.


My life is not measured in time or wealth; it is measured in scars. Those changes upon my body, my soul and my armour, they tell a tale of life and death, of victory and catastrophe. Each one, its own unique story and I am grateful for each and every one. My name is not important, but my armour is. It is a deep gold and engraved with wreathes of roses for King Leoppald’s army. I have been a warrior all my life, I have lived, loved and I will die in this plate.

I was a squire when the war broke out. Nearly twenty years later and a knight, the fighting has drawn to a close. As with all battles, the ending will not please everyone, but it is over and all sides are weary. It over and that is enough.

I remember when this armour was forged. When this body was young and unbroken. When I first held this battered blade and the idea of taking a life with it frightened and excited me at the same time. How many times I have wiped the blood of other men from it I cannot tell you, but the excitement faded swiftly and grim necessity quickly took over. Every dent upon my plate tells a story, as does every badly healed bone and scar upon my flesh and mind.

It is night and my golden armour appears ashen, as though mirroring my own state of mind. My gauntlets, boots and helm. All of these tell of countless weapons swung with the intention to end me and boast of the intent denied. Skill and luck both play their parts and I acknowledge both where due. The metal coat is not uniform, parts have been patched as required to keep it functional. Other men replace pieces as required, but I need my scars to keep me humble. How easy it would be to forget all those landed blows, those near misses and live in sweet bliss of one’s flawless appearance, erase the past with a blacksmith’s hammer.

The moonlight highlights a deep gouge across my breastplate. The blow that nearly killed me, but eight years ago. I can recall it vividly and it still shakes me. It is a foolish warrior who does not respect his foe and this one was formidable. A giant of a man, he came at me in the chaos of particularly deadly skirmish. The heavens had opened and rain poured upon both sides as though the gods wept for us all. I recognised him immediately, the double headed axe clasped in hands like hunks of meat. His reputation preceded him and I was struck down with a paralysing fear. I owe my life to that rain, as the beast strode towards me in thick mud and I slipped and tripped uselessly trying to evade him. The mud sucked one of his loglike legs deep, near up to his groin. Perhaps I should have engaged him, but instead I stood watching him, blinded by flashes of lightning. He pulled himself free with such force that he fell towards me and his axe grated against my armour. He did not swing, so it did little more than bruise me, but in a panic I had turned my blade towards him and he fell upon it. By luck or by divine decree it caught him at his weak spot and he died upon me, I watched the fury leave his eyes until he was as insignificant a husk as the others littering the battlefield. Death is the ultimate equaliser in the game of life.

But this jagged gouge across the breastplate is nothing compared to the one that lies beneath it. The cut that will never heal and brought me to this point in my life as I tell you these tales. Of all my scars, this hurts the most, but if I do not tell this tale now, I never will. It is not quite the truth that I told you before, that I became a squire after the war broke out. After vicious and angry men swept the realm in the name of a cruel Lord Pyris. I was a farmboy when they came to our land demanding sustenance and lodging. My last memory of her is as I lay in mud and manure, dazed and bleeding from a gauntlet blow to my face. My last vision of her is draped over the horse of a ravenhaired man, dressed in the plate of a knight. He is laughing and touching her. My last sound of her is the high pitched desperate cry that tore my heart in two.

It is morning and the time for tales is over.

I am walking into the great hall, escorted either side by faceless soldiers in their shining armour. No story to them, each a clean slate ready to earn bragging rights or death in the attempt. They march me down through hushed pews of an anxious audience and before the King. Despite the damage wrought upon it, my armour shines a brilliant gold in the sunlight. I am radiant. They talk around me and the audience murmurs. My eyes are drawn to the throne, a magnificent and intimidating piece, designed to have such an effect upon people like me. The King is speaking to me. My eyes drop to his. He tells me to kneel and I do.

There are two reasons for knights to kneel before kings.

The war is over and I am weary. The sword will fall and that is enough. King Pyris orders me to bow my head and my neck is exposed. A new scar to trump all others. This is where my story will end as my body decays and my armour is taken and melted. I hear the swish as the blade is lifted and I find myself yearning for it to drop.

[Galadorn]

Happy read time! Thank you Lou!


--Matt