The forest is littered with carnage, armor and dead bodies. Red, green and silver are the new colors of what was once a beautiful lush forest which has now turned into the stage of a merciless battle. The air, which usually carried the songs of birds and the smell of petrichor was now merely a hellish canvas for the stench of death and the glowing red embers that engulfed the vile scenery. Enough to make even the bravest of men tremble in fear. Two trained armies had fought in vain for control of the area, neither prevailing. The toll on both nature and humanity was enormous. It would likely take generations before the forest will have recovered. It was clear, metal, rubble and gore had taken the place of trees and plants.
However, amongst the remains lay a boy... the sole survivor. The hellish symphony of screams and brutality displayed had polluted the poor boys' ears and eyes. What had happened would not pass easily, his soul forever poisoned with the tragedy of war.
Golden, curly hair gently hangs over his chiseled, friendly face. Narrow green eyes, set buried deep within their sockets complimenting his fair skin. A cut reaching from just under his right eye , running towards his left nostril and ending on his left cheekbone, forever narrates his tormenting past. This is the story of Kensworth Diablo.
There was a sudden clamoring of hooves and shouting which disrupted the short lived peace. Around eight to ten men on horses had arrived to the graveyard where Ken lay.
"It's as bad as the rumors say, almost like hell on earth" one of the men uttered. The company stared over the never-ending field of death, bewildered at the horrifying sight.
"We'll have plenty of time to talk about this later on, for now gather up any survivors and load the dead... no, forget it. Leave the dead here, there are far too many" ordered the man atop a white horse. "We'll bring back any survivors, and let the surrounding towns and villages do the dirty work." The man had red curly hair which reached his shoulders. His stern gray eyes watched over his men as they staggered amongst the mountains of dead bodies searching for survivors. This man was non other than Commander Holger of Rougefell Town.
Their visit was short lived, it would take far too long and prove far too difficult a task to check every body. As the sun began to set, Holger, his company and Ken set off for Rougefell. It wasn't long before the group had decided to take refuge in a nearby cave.
"The trip back to Rougefell will take at least 2 halvdes1A halvdev is 12 hours, or half a day, we will rest here and leave fist thing in the morning." Holger spoke, to which grunts of agreement were returned. The group was sitting on scrapped logs with the cave to the south of them; a safe sleeping place.
"Well Sir Holger, all that is good, but what I wanna know is how the fuck a kid managed to creep their way into such a battlefield" an intrigued Bodger spoke. "And how'd he live through it, let alone be the only survivor?!!" All eyes were now on the little boy. Ken was only a child, around the age of three or four, he stared at the company perplexed and amused by their confused faces. It was clear Ken had little-to-no idea of where he was and what had happened.
"He's probably too shocked to understand us, or doesn't speak our language."
"Should we try asking again?"
"I say leave him be. He needs his rest, plus he's already beginning to doze off"
Ken's eyes were droopy and it wasn't long before he fell asleep and disappeared amongst the choir of banter and chatter which had suddenly erupted. The sun had set, and now it was time to move into the cave.
With a camp fire set at the entrance of the cave, the cold blue and black atmosphere was immediately replaced with a warm glowing orange. Everyone had sat with their backs against the solid gray wall with a beverage in their hands. And after a great deal of drinking, the now drunk family had broken into song.
Do You Hear The Tavern Ring?
Eric of Tobar Mhuire
To the tune of Do You Hear The People Sing? from Les Miserables
Do you hear the tavern ring, singing a song in minor key?
It is the music of the cider, warping brains of such as we.
When the ailing of your skull echoes the sculling of your ale,
We can be sure that silence comes, when your voices fail.
Will you join in our crusade? Who has the skill to hold a tune?
Our memories may degrade, for we’ve been drunk all afternoon.
So join in the crowd that will let you bay loud at the moon!
Will you drink all you can drink so that our voices fill the air.
Some will hold and some will crack, but we’re so drunk we hardly care.
Each one in a separate key, and our voices we share!
So they sang, chanted, shouted and laughed all night long. It truly was the spirit of the warriors from Rougefell Town.
