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Bregoware
Fion forced himself to close his eyes. He held them closed for several moments, but finally they opened again. It was no use. It was as though the image of the slain vilage had been burned into the retinas of his eyes. Opened or closed, they could still see the horrible destruction...
The image was terrifying. All those people... All those lives... Gone. Slain and burned by orcs or Easterlings.
Fion felt as though someone had slapped him across the face, waking him from a dream. This was reality. This horrible, smouldering scene was reality. People were dying. Fion felt suddenly very small, and very weak, and very alone. There had been men in this town; surely some fighters had lived here. And they had died. Died! If they had been slain, then how could he, Fion of Bregoware, farmer extrordinaire, even hope to survive should he run into orcs?
He just... would! a stubborn inner voice declared. Somehow, he and his party would pull through. They had to. It was their duty... But still, doubt began to cast its shadow over his mind. What if they failed?
Fion rolled over. Meghan and Osmod were gone, he noticed. They must have slipped off while he was busy trying to force himself to sleep.
Everyone else was asleep, although their slumber seemed far from tranquil. Fion quietly sat up. Sleep was unattainable now. He stared blankly off into the darkness, feeling strangely cold.
They were dead. The entire town was dead. A small, sleepy little town...
Like Bregoware.
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