DeletedUser
Guest
T'is a tale we have all experienced, and yet it is criminally ignored.
Imagine the scene; the hour is late, and your village is deserted. You have been pacing along the stone flooring of the Village Headquarters for a time that seems immeasurable, the echoing of each foot-fall your only companion. Although kept warm by all your finery, your breath mists before your face. It was going to be a long, uncertain night.
The oaken doors swing open, letting in a rush of night air that makes the lanterns and candles splutter with indignation. You spin on your heels towards the intruder, swiftly moving one hand to the pommel of your well-balanced sword . . . and then you smile at the familiar chiseled face of your Paladin. He continues towards you, clutching folded parchment in his gauntleted fist, which he wordlessly offers to you. The report of the raid on the abandoned village.
You pluck the report from his grip lightly with one bejeweled hand, and in one swift movement your Paladin kneels before you; head bowed, with one hand holding the pommel of his sword and the other clenched into a fist over his heart. Gently, you unfold the report, moving closer to a rather lavish candle-holder to afford better visibility.
"178 wood . . . 156 clay . . . 233 iron." You mutter to yourself. Turning cautiously, so your bear-fur cloack does not get tangled in the candle-holder, you state to your Paladin. "A good nights pillaging, that. Do we have any idea quite who is making these resources?"
"No, your Grace," your Paladin replies. "The village is quite empty, and has been for some time by the looks. The loot just . . . appears."
You tap a finger against your chin thoughtfully. "Most curious." You unravel the parchment once more, making sure you had calcuated correctly that the village did indeed have enough materials to build a palisade wall around its perimeter. Then you see it.
"Wha . . . one casualty? What? Who? How?" You demand.
The Paladin remains silent, still bowed on the floor.
"ANSWER ME!"
" . . . Radavan . . . the spearman, your Grace. We . . . we don't know what happened, he just . . . died," the Paladin offered reluctantly.
He tilted his head up to find you looming over him, your face not an inch from his. "He just died? Just died? You told me the village was aban-"
"It is abandoned" he interjected.
"And then how, how did he 'just die?' Did anyone witness what happened to him?"
The Paladin shook his head, only slightly.
". . . then maybe he got lost. He might still be there," you state.
"NO!" bellows your Paladin. "HE JUST DIED!"
Outraged by the Paladins show of insubordination, you afford him a back-handed slap across the face, and storm passed him into the village square. There, you see the three axemen, given the sole responsibility of protecting the seven - no six; it was six now. Poor Radavan - you see nothing but dark faces. Silence. Not one said a word, whereas normally the fools would be rejoicing at such a nights worth of pillaging.
Absolute silence, until the shriek of an owl shattered it. An owl, you convince yourself, but your mind can't help but muse whether it was actually the cries of agony emitted from human lungs. Radavan's lungs.
You shiver, but you are not cold. What had happened?
Imagine the scene; the hour is late, and your village is deserted. You have been pacing along the stone flooring of the Village Headquarters for a time that seems immeasurable, the echoing of each foot-fall your only companion. Although kept warm by all your finery, your breath mists before your face. It was going to be a long, uncertain night.
The oaken doors swing open, letting in a rush of night air that makes the lanterns and candles splutter with indignation. You spin on your heels towards the intruder, swiftly moving one hand to the pommel of your well-balanced sword . . . and then you smile at the familiar chiseled face of your Paladin. He continues towards you, clutching folded parchment in his gauntleted fist, which he wordlessly offers to you. The report of the raid on the abandoned village.
You pluck the report from his grip lightly with one bejeweled hand, and in one swift movement your Paladin kneels before you; head bowed, with one hand holding the pommel of his sword and the other clenched into a fist over his heart. Gently, you unfold the report, moving closer to a rather lavish candle-holder to afford better visibility.
"178 wood . . . 156 clay . . . 233 iron." You mutter to yourself. Turning cautiously, so your bear-fur cloack does not get tangled in the candle-holder, you state to your Paladin. "A good nights pillaging, that. Do we have any idea quite who is making these resources?"
"No, your Grace," your Paladin replies. "The village is quite empty, and has been for some time by the looks. The loot just . . . appears."
You tap a finger against your chin thoughtfully. "Most curious." You unravel the parchment once more, making sure you had calcuated correctly that the village did indeed have enough materials to build a palisade wall around its perimeter. Then you see it.
"Wha . . . one casualty? What? Who? How?" You demand.
The Paladin remains silent, still bowed on the floor.
"ANSWER ME!"
" . . . Radavan . . . the spearman, your Grace. We . . . we don't know what happened, he just . . . died," the Paladin offered reluctantly.
He tilted his head up to find you looming over him, your face not an inch from his. "He just died? Just died? You told me the village was aban-"
"It is abandoned" he interjected.
"And then how, how did he 'just die?' Did anyone witness what happened to him?"
The Paladin shook his head, only slightly.
". . . then maybe he got lost. He might still be there," you state.
"NO!" bellows your Paladin. "HE JUST DIED!"
Outraged by the Paladins show of insubordination, you afford him a back-handed slap across the face, and storm passed him into the village square. There, you see the three axemen, given the sole responsibility of protecting the seven - no six; it was six now. Poor Radavan - you see nothing but dark faces. Silence. Not one said a word, whereas normally the fools would be rejoicing at such a nights worth of pillaging.
Absolute silence, until the shriek of an owl shattered it. An owl, you convince yourself, but your mind can't help but muse whether it was actually the cries of agony emitted from human lungs. Radavan's lungs.
You shiver, but you are not cold. What had happened?