Post by Jack Trades on Jan 30, 2010 0:05:15 GMT -6
(Music to accompany: Genesis Hibernia by Dagda)
A thunderstorm washed over the small town that slumbered in the shadow of the capital. At the center of the town was a great old oak, which swayed as it always had under the wind's hand. A blacksmith shop rested under the stout boughs, the forge still smoking despite the rain. The door was open, spilling light out onto the rain-soaked ground. The light cast shadows past a boy who sat on his knees in a divot of the freshly turned mud. His face was smooth, but dirty and stained with soot and flecks of red. The boy's grey eyes stared intently at nothing as he sat in the mud breathlessly clenching a hammer. The chill of the heavy rain began to cut through the warm vermilion coating his hands, hammer, and leather apron. At his sides, more blood washed into the mud, flowing from two men laying in fatal disarray. All around, the townspeople began to emerge from their homes and the town guard raced toward the scene. A breath was exhaled from burning lungs. His whole body shook as it resumed breathing. His eyes still stared intently at nothing. Onlookers peered out from rain-streaked windows, their faces highlighted by the flashes of lightning. One guard with a frightened look on his face skidded to a stop, clutching the boy in both hands at the shoulders while other guards warded the gathering crowd. The guard shouted questions at the boy, but no reply would come. The guard gathered the boy up, and started to carry him toward a house. A young couple beckoned them hurriedly from an open doorway. Still breathing heavily, the boy's eyes fell upon the open door of the forge, and the body of a well dressed man with scarred and calloused hands inside the shop. They focused on the image, holding it until the door of the young couple's house was shut.
A one-horse cart rolled up the road toward Red Wall. Driven by an old man tufted with white hair and simple clothing. The old man reigned the horse to a stop. "We're here. This is as far as I go," he called over a shoulder with a graveled voice. Not receiving a reply, he picked up an old and worn broomstick and rattled the barrels in the cart behind him. There was a yawn, and a burly figure clad in a black oilskin poncho and broad-brimmed hat rose from amidst the cargo, dusted in snow that sloughed off his frame as it straightened. The weather-beaten brim turned toward the old man and dipped in a deep nod before the figure casually stepped off the back of the cart. His bulk landed softly despite its size. The old man shook his head and clapped the reigns. The horse and cart plodded on as the brawny frame stood stolidly behind. The Valley of Stars...he knew this place. Turning, the brim tipped up toward the foothills before scanning over the valley. He could still hear the thundering cannon. The shriek of ripping timbre - the shouts of rage - the cries of the dying - earth sundering - it all came back easier than he would have preferred. Even with the thick blanket of snow, he could see where venerable trees had once stood. He recognized depressions in the landscape because he had made them. He knew where the Watchers fell. The names also were clear in his mind: Kendrew, Balian, Danae, Maahes, Beathag, Jonas, Liliana, Ariacellis, Jelena, and still more.
The brim centered upon the proud oriental style palace now before him. Maahes got his wish. Hob-nailed boots stepped forward, crunching the snow in an even stride toward the gate.
A thunderstorm washed over the small town that slumbered in the shadow of the capital. At the center of the town was a great old oak, which swayed as it always had under the wind's hand. A blacksmith shop rested under the stout boughs, the forge still smoking despite the rain. The door was open, spilling light out onto the rain-soaked ground. The light cast shadows past a boy who sat on his knees in a divot of the freshly turned mud. His face was smooth, but dirty and stained with soot and flecks of red. The boy's grey eyes stared intently at nothing as he sat in the mud breathlessly clenching a hammer. The chill of the heavy rain began to cut through the warm vermilion coating his hands, hammer, and leather apron. At his sides, more blood washed into the mud, flowing from two men laying in fatal disarray. All around, the townspeople began to emerge from their homes and the town guard raced toward the scene. A breath was exhaled from burning lungs. His whole body shook as it resumed breathing. His eyes still stared intently at nothing. Onlookers peered out from rain-streaked windows, their faces highlighted by the flashes of lightning. One guard with a frightened look on his face skidded to a stop, clutching the boy in both hands at the shoulders while other guards warded the gathering crowd. The guard shouted questions at the boy, but no reply would come. The guard gathered the boy up, and started to carry him toward a house. A young couple beckoned them hurriedly from an open doorway. Still breathing heavily, the boy's eyes fell upon the open door of the forge, and the body of a well dressed man with scarred and calloused hands inside the shop. They focused on the image, holding it until the door of the young couple's house was shut.
A one-horse cart rolled up the road toward Red Wall. Driven by an old man tufted with white hair and simple clothing. The old man reigned the horse to a stop. "We're here. This is as far as I go," he called over a shoulder with a graveled voice. Not receiving a reply, he picked up an old and worn broomstick and rattled the barrels in the cart behind him. There was a yawn, and a burly figure clad in a black oilskin poncho and broad-brimmed hat rose from amidst the cargo, dusted in snow that sloughed off his frame as it straightened. The weather-beaten brim turned toward the old man and dipped in a deep nod before the figure casually stepped off the back of the cart. His bulk landed softly despite its size. The old man shook his head and clapped the reigns. The horse and cart plodded on as the brawny frame stood stolidly behind. The Valley of Stars...he knew this place. Turning, the brim tipped up toward the foothills before scanning over the valley. He could still hear the thundering cannon. The shriek of ripping timbre - the shouts of rage - the cries of the dying - earth sundering - it all came back easier than he would have preferred. Even with the thick blanket of snow, he could see where venerable trees had once stood. He recognized depressions in the landscape because he had made them. He knew where the Watchers fell. The names also were clear in his mind: Kendrew, Balian, Danae, Maahes, Beathag, Jonas, Liliana, Ariacellis, Jelena, and still more.
The brim centered upon the proud oriental style palace now before him. Maahes got his wish. Hob-nailed boots stepped forward, crunching the snow in an even stride toward the gate.
)