Sir, I mean Lotham, was right. The plaguelands were even worse then silverpine. The trees didnt weep here, they suffered, long past crying. The animals were enraged through their pain, living in a state of rot.
And the undead. They were everywhere. Id heard of a scarlet presence but I couldnt understand how there would be any place for them here. The dead ruled supreme.
I shuddered, and the captain looked at me. His eyes studied me then turned away.
I straightened , and shook off my nerves. It was an honour to be invited! Me, a lowly private, on a patrol with argent dawn personnel! Well, granted it was a routine patrol, and fairly boring. We were just having a look around Caer Darrow, making sure no grieving relative had come here, only to be harmed in some way.
Rumors about this place were pretty nasty. Something about a butcher. And now and then you could hear the laughter of children still ring through the air. But all that was left was a burnt out shell.
Quick check done, returning back to camp.
Wait a scream. From behind!
Tessa was down , ghouls everywhere. An ambush! Orders were being shouted, defensive line.
Sword drawn, I was pushed to the back, to green, a hinderance more then help.
Pain flashed. Sharp lines shooting down my back.
I cant bring up my sword. Why am I falling?
Behind us, more ghouls and armored death. Trying to shout, not enough strength to warn them.
The dead ignore me, moving past to strike at my compatriots backs. No, we were not ready for this. Outnumbered.
I watch as the captain rallies the men, forming a circle of swords. Pain keeps me concious, makes me watch them from the ground. Terror flashes in theur eyes, tempered with determination. They would make every last breath of air count.
Give In. Let go.
I wish I could have done more. Cold eyes stare at me, measuring me, then moving to join in the fray.
You cannot help them.
Please let me pass out. I cant watch this anymore. They are toying with us. The ones who fall yet live arent killed. They are made to watch. Curses fill the air. The sound of sword hitting bones and meat, of claws tearing at mail armor , the cries of men filled with anguish. The stench of rotting meat, made sharper with the ferric taste of blood.
Defeat is inevitable.
To soon the battle is over.
Then the fallen are looked at. Some are left , dying slowly, bleeding out in agony. The lucky ones.
The rest of us, are dumped on a wagon, no care given beyond the fact we are on it.
Give up. Stop fighting.
I want to scream, terror is still forcing my heart to race. But that in itself seems like a blessing. My blood stains the floor of the wagon , mingling with my comrades. But not for much longer.
Let go of your fears and sleep.
My life should flash in front of my eyes. I want to remember my uncle, my friends , but I cannot. All I see is the sun, slowly setting, shining brightly, like a murderer leaving the scene of his actions with no care of being caught.