Evilcranberries

Of course, things like this weren't easy, and it was going to take time for him to regain the trust of his people once again: but that was something that he could accomplish easily enough, and he would. Once he saw what had become of his home. There was a part of him that was almost afraid to go and see the castle: his kingdom. Though he knew, of course, that he must do this. He must walk up the once familiar path, he must retrace his last steps from his home, to the place he had fled, in hopes of living a normal and healthy life. He must trudge up the hill, cobbles crunching underneath his feet: where they had worn loose and begun to shift over time. He must make it up the path before night fell; for he knew that if he didn’t, he never would. The urge to turn and flee this place once more was nearly impossible to resist. But he stood steadfast. Gazing up at the empty castle; where he knew a tomb for his brother resided on the grounds. Wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his sword

The sounds echoed in his mind. The weight of the hoof hitting the ground vibrated through his body. The hilt of the sword was heavy in his hand, his wrist bent under the weight, his armor clicked and rattled as the horse charged forward. Rushing into the battle. There was noise all around him. The noise of battle. The noise of people screaming. The noise of people hurting. The noise of people dying. He was killing people. They may not have been dying to his blade, but they were dying to his soldiers. He was a murderer, He had turned into everything he didn’t want to be. And he was riding into battle. Clicking and clacking. The iron hooves of the warhorse beating the ground. His life, his whole world fading away behind him. As the world around him went to darkness. And he was left charging, sword held loosely in his hand threatening to slip away,  into nothing. The world was going to darkness. And flames were rising from the grounds. Lighting his path before him. There was a drop off at

For years he had remained hidden, seeking solitude in lieu of watching his kingdom grow, and helping them move on from the war; of planting crops, and watching his land bear the fruit it once had. Now that he had started back into the world he had left behind, now that the armor weighed heavily on his shoulders, now that his crown rested on his head once again (the weight of it reminding him what he had left so far behind so long ago. Reminding him of the family he had lost. Of the brother who had died trying to keep the kingdom together while he was off gallivanting across the country; leaving his duties behind, and hiding from the reality that he had helped to create) he was starting to understand the importance of his position. Now that he had lost it. There were so many things that he could do, now that he could see what was wrong. So many problems he knew that he could solve. So much he could see to why these people needed him. The reasons why they hailed the king rang through his

The temples were old. All that remained of the Old Reign. The only things in the city that hadn’t been destroyed in the fights. The only things that hadn’t been rebuilt. Tapestries hung on the walls of the great halls. depicting the history of Alvarin, and her leaders. To the locals it was stale. To a new comer, who knew nothing of the history of Alvarin (her bloody, bloody history), and her leaders  it was aweinspiring. As a general rule he didn’t like to stop and look at art, or loiter in halls (he didn’t like to be in the way. He didn’t like to be noticed so much), but there was something extremely captivating about the tapestries. They made him stop and stare, and the urge to know more about their history was nearly overwhelming. But he had things to do. And a woman to meet with (he didn’t feel comfortable about using a woman, but if she was the only one that he could get, the only one he could use, then he would have to do it). It seemed unusual to him that there were so many

As a habit of personal interest Shamus generally didn’t get involved in strangers business. Especially in the pub. More especially if they were looking for someone who could deal with the dead. But there was something about this man that told him that it wouldn’t hurt if he were to tell him where he could find any such person. Of course it was quite against the rules, but Shamus wasn’t really a man for following the rules other people had laid out for him. He’d done that once. And a lot of good it had done him. Basically homeless, and broke, he spent every night in the pub looking for work, and when he did get it the money went straight into whiskey. He hadn’t shaved in days, and he smelled of booze. He was quite filthy, and he was sure he smelled awful. And that man in there (what was his name? He’d heard it in passing, buzzing through the pub like a scream of trouble. A fire lighting in the bowels of the city, and spreading violently, quickly, through the city, looking for the

Honestly, it felt like they were always in a bar. Or in a battlefield. He did not feel like himself anymore. His hands always trembled, and at this time he could no longer tell if it was because of the drinking, or the night terrors he had every night. The haunting song from his dream, that played in his ears all day. He just didn’t know any more, as he gazed into the ale. Trying to see through to the bottom, knowing good and well the apple ale was a s foggy as his own vision was. “Aye, that’ll be it for me” he muttered as who he believed was the barkeep approached. “As it is for me.” Her voice was sharp, she sounded displeased as if she simply could not believe that she was in this wretched building. “You found me.” His voice was heavier now, as if he were fearful. He placed the glass onto the counter slowly and turned on the stool to face the elven woman beside him. He would always love her. She would never love him. “You made it quite simple.” She folded her arms across her chest

“life isn’t always going to lead you to the life you think you deserve” his fathers words were echoing through his head as he lay on his back, gazing into the sky, remembering a simpler time in his life. Standing was the furthest from his mind, but as the ground shook beneath him he put his trembling hands flat against the broken earth, pushing away from the ground he felt the dirt beneath his nails. His body was sore, the blast that had knocked him off of his feet seemed to be seeping into his muscles. The ringing in his ears hadn’t stopped. “You have got to stop” Boyden’s voice was cutting through the fog in his brain as he focused his attention on the two men a dozen yards ahead “all of these years. All of these lives” the king gestured vaguely around them, The death count was rising on the battlefield. The soldiers were weak, waning. Each swing, each block, each parry. They were becoming less and less enthusiastic. The years of the war were showing on everyone’s face. “Never