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Undómë · 03-12-2006, 04:06 PM

Bregoware

Meghan

The moon was bright enough that the way to the ransacked village was well lit. Meghan left her horse behind and picked her way down the slope. Her boots kicked up the light layer of ash and soot the wind had blown from the charred remains. At the back of her mind she could hear a small voice of warning, that perhaps this was not a safe thing to be doing . . . by herself . . . much less at night.

The blackened and tumbled down walls of what had been some of the outlying huts were the first things she came upon. The moon’s light softened the ragged edges of them and threw wide puddles of shadow about them. It was so quiet. So very quiet, save for the occasional sound of the night’s breeze as it flapped a half hung shutter against a cottage’s remaining wall.

It struck her odd, this quietness. Even in the late watches of the night there were noises in Bregoware. The bleat of a baby goat, wanting its mother. Chickens squawking as they ruffled their feathers and then settled back to sleep. The soft slap-slap of someone’s feet as they headed for the privy. A child, crying out in a dream. A feeling of great sadness washed over her at the loss of these familiar sounds. This village must have known them, too. And now they were muffled beneath the fallen timbers and the ashes.

‘Is this what we will return to?’ she asked, thinking of her family’s home as her eyes took in the ruins of some farmer’s place. And next to it the burnt little pen and shed where his family’s animals had been kept. She had always felt safe, secure, in the little dwelling where she lived with her mother and her brother and his small family. Now she understood how insubstantial were those old wood walls and thick oak doors against the ravenous dark wolf from the east who would devours all if he could. She shivered, pulling her cloak tighter about her.

In the dirt pathways that led from the outskirts to the center of the village were strewn the bodies of the awful creatures who had wrought this destruction. The villagers, it seemed, had put up a valiant fight against them. But so many were the attackers that they had not a chance of victory.

A frown furrowed her brow as she walked along. Where were the bodies of the slain villagers? Her stomach revolted at the sudden thought that the remainder of these vile creatures, these Orcs, might have taken them for food. Surely not! She sent a quiet plea out that this would not prove true.

As if in answer to this, she found her way at last to the village center, the small square that had served these people much as the one in Bregoware. A gathering place where news both ill and good was told and joyous tidings celebrated, sad ones mourned. Some ones had taken the time to separate these good people of Scyffold, as Sythric had named it, from their murderers and sent them beyond the circles of this world. Brought back honor to them in this way; gave their spirits some measure of peace against the horror of their passing.

Where were these good people now who had done this last thing, she wondered. And who would do the same should the darkness fall on Bregoware?

A tear slipped down her cheek, looking at the charred remains of bones. From the inner pocket of her cloak she took out her little reed pipe. She fingered the small holes in it for a moment, recalling a song an old piper had once played to send off the spirits of a number of young men of Bregoware killed in a skirmish with a small scouting party of eastern men. She hummed the melody to catch the notes then put the pipe to her lips and played for the fallen . . .

03-12-2006, 04:06 PM	#193
Undómë Shade of Carn Dûm Join Date: Mar 2005 Posts: 400	Bregoware *Meghan* The moon was bright enough that the way to the ransacked village was well lit. Meghan left her horse behind and picked her way down the slope. Her boots kicked up the light layer of ash and soot the wind had blown from the charred remains. At the back of her mind she could hear a small voice of warning, that perhaps this was not a safe thing to be doing . . . by herself . . . much less at night. The blackened and tumbled down walls of what had been some of the outlying huts were the first things she came upon. The moon’s light softened the ragged edges of them and threw wide puddles of shadow about them. It was so quiet. So very quiet, save for the occasional sound of the night’s breeze as it flapped a half hung shutter against a cottage’s remaining wall. It struck her odd, this quietness. Even in the late watches of the night there were noises in Bregoware. The bleat of a baby goat, wanting its mother. Chickens squawking as they ruffled their feathers and then settled back to sleep. The soft slap-slap of someone’s feet as they headed for the privy. A child, crying out in a dream. A feeling of great sadness washed over her at the loss of these familiar sounds. This village must have known them, too. And now they were muffled beneath the fallen timbers and the ashes. ‘Is this what we will return to?’ she asked, thinking of her family’s home as her eyes took in the ruins of some farmer’s place. And next to it the burnt little pen and shed where his family’s animals had been kept. She had always felt safe, secure, in the little dwelling where she lived with her mother and her brother and his small family. Now she understood how insubstantial were those old wood walls and thick oak doors against the ravenous dark wolf from the east who would devours all if he could. She shivered, pulling her cloak tighter about her. In the dirt pathways that led from the outskirts to the center of the village were strewn the bodies of the awful creatures who had wrought this destruction. The villagers, it seemed, had put up a valiant fight against them. But so many were the attackers that they had not a chance of victory. A frown furrowed her brow as she walked along. Where were the bodies of the slain villagers? Her stomach revolted at the sudden thought that the remainder of these vile creatures, these Orcs, might have taken them for food. Surely not! She sent a quiet plea out that this would not prove true. As if in answer to this, she found her way at last to the village center, the small square that had served these people much as the one in Bregoware. A gathering place where news both ill and good was told and joyous tidings celebrated, sad ones mourned. Some ones had taken the time to separate these good people of Scyffold, as Sythric had named it, from their murderers and sent them beyond the circles of this world. Brought back honor to them in this way; gave their spirits some measure of peace against the horror of their passing. Where were these good people now who had done this last thing, she wondered. And who would do the same should the darkness fall on Bregoware? A tear slipped down her cheek, looking at the charred remains of bones. From the inner pocket of her cloak she took out her little reed pipe. She fingered the small holes in it for a moment, recalling a song an old piper had once played to send off the spirits of a number of young men of Bregoware killed in a skirmish with a small scouting party of eastern men. She hummed the melody to catch the notes then put the pipe to her lips and played for the fallen . . . Last edited by Undómë; 03-12-2006 at 05:55 PM.