Run
08-30-10, 12:59 AM
There were a few moments of delusion and hope that what villagers saw in the distance, some miles down the unpaved road, beyond the veil of falling snow, wasn't torchlight. Since the war had torn across the nation of Salvar like a flash fire through a creaking, dry forest, not even the tiny village of Palad had gone untouched. Soldiers of both the Church and the Crown had stopped through on their marches, as though on a single circuit, and had taken as much food and supplies and able bodied men as any of them could. They had feared some time that either faction would have simply set up a military outpost in their midst, settled so snugly as the village was against the Knife's Edge mountians. As far as any of them knew though, the war was winding down, if not over. Saint Denebriel was dead and the Church was crushed.
But any man that let his hopes raise was a man asking for a slap in the face.
There were a few blessed, relieved moments when the prayer had seemed to be answered. That warm, red glow in the midst of the blue and white of the storm simply vanished. Five of them stood beyond where the village ended, where the last few, small scattered homes were built; three women and two teenagers, too old to be called boys and too young to be men. Those two held wood axes, peering into the wind and the snow. They waited for a moment or two, then finally sighed with relief. They could not help but fear a visit; even should it be nothing more than a traveller or a merchant. The Church and the Crown had taken far more than they could bear.
The glow came back as they began to turn around, and it came alive then much closer, close enough to see the individual flames flickering in the mass. The light came, and it was close enough now that the women and the teenagers could see that what walked down the road to Palad where six figures, men from their shape. The women turned to each other, talking rapidly, and all five turned back to their village and rushed back. By the time they'd returned, their numbers raised to ten now, The six had reached the village.
Four were soldiers, unmistakable from the armor they wore and the halberds the carried. The other two were no so easy to place, and strange indeed; the man who seemed to be the leader was shorter than the others, and wore a strange white mask, his disheveled black hair, spotted with frost and clinging snowflakes, hanging down in his eyes. He wore a red cloak, and one hand was held before him. Dancing in his palm was their torchlight - a fireball the size of his own head. In the light, they could easily see the glove he wore was marked with the symbol of the fallen Church of the Ethereal Sway.
The other was tall, willowy and graceful, unmistakably an elf. His hair fluttered in the icy Slavic air in aureous waves. However, he did not wear the look of peace and happiness that most elves were known for; he scowled, his bitter stare sweeping over the ten women and young, nervous men. His tawny stare threatened to peirce them like finely honed daggers.
The man in the mask shook his hand, and the fireball went out with a hiss and a coil of black smoke. "We'll be staying here," July Nusquam announced to his travelling companions and the gawking villagers.
But any man that let his hopes raise was a man asking for a slap in the face.
There were a few blessed, relieved moments when the prayer had seemed to be answered. That warm, red glow in the midst of the blue and white of the storm simply vanished. Five of them stood beyond where the village ended, where the last few, small scattered homes were built; three women and two teenagers, too old to be called boys and too young to be men. Those two held wood axes, peering into the wind and the snow. They waited for a moment or two, then finally sighed with relief. They could not help but fear a visit; even should it be nothing more than a traveller or a merchant. The Church and the Crown had taken far more than they could bear.
The glow came back as they began to turn around, and it came alive then much closer, close enough to see the individual flames flickering in the mass. The light came, and it was close enough now that the women and the teenagers could see that what walked down the road to Palad where six figures, men from their shape. The women turned to each other, talking rapidly, and all five turned back to their village and rushed back. By the time they'd returned, their numbers raised to ten now, The six had reached the village.
Four were soldiers, unmistakable from the armor they wore and the halberds the carried. The other two were no so easy to place, and strange indeed; the man who seemed to be the leader was shorter than the others, and wore a strange white mask, his disheveled black hair, spotted with frost and clinging snowflakes, hanging down in his eyes. He wore a red cloak, and one hand was held before him. Dancing in his palm was their torchlight - a fireball the size of his own head. In the light, they could easily see the glove he wore was marked with the symbol of the fallen Church of the Ethereal Sway.
The other was tall, willowy and graceful, unmistakably an elf. His hair fluttered in the icy Slavic air in aureous waves. However, he did not wear the look of peace and happiness that most elves were known for; he scowled, his bitter stare sweeping over the ten women and young, nervous men. His tawny stare threatened to peirce them like finely honed daggers.
The man in the mask shook his hand, and the fireball went out with a hiss and a coil of black smoke. "We'll be staying here," July Nusquam announced to his travelling companions and the gawking villagers.