A crow flapped down through the mists, and lighted on a broken spear shaft.
He croaked, tearing through the thick silence, and twisted his jet-black eye towards the ground. There, soaking the grass beneath them, lay the ruined, bleeding remains of men. Some were of fair stature in life, lords of their time. Their limbs were once lithe and strong; their proud voices once sang ancient songs of joy and battle. But no more would the plows feel the strength of their hands, and no more would the hills and forests resound with the melodies of their rejoicing.
Beside those once-renowned men were strewn the carcasses of their enemies: black goblins, twisted, hideous, detestable to the eyes of men. They were smaller than men, the largest of them being no more than five feet tall; their skin was mottled black and green, like leaves that have been stricken with blights of the foulest order. Some still grasped blood-soaked scimitars, crudely forged in furnaces deep in the mountains. Many still wore the grimacing mask of battle on their swarthy fanged faces.
The crow blinked, and looked directly beneath it, towards the base of his perch.
A man sat there, propped against a fallen horse. A crusted trail of blood ran down from the side of his mouth. His blonde hair was now choked and matted with gore and mud; dust dulled his steely breastplate. But the crow's keen eye picked out the smallest of movements. The man's chest still rose and fell, ever so slightly.
The crow croaked again.
A small moment passed. Then the man slowly raised his face upwards, to peer through the mists at the black bird. He coughed, and began to speak.
"Now truly the end has come," he said despairingly. "The steward of the battlefield is come, in his midnight robes and never-satisfied appetite. I ask you only this, O Steward: spare my flesh from your table, that those who may search for my body may find me unmarred."
Then, suddenly, the man's chest heaved in a mighty cough, and the
10-May-2012 21:12:54
- Last edited on
10-May-2012 21:23:08
by
Chosen Worf
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