The Quiet of Night

[Darkshard]

With unflinching black eyes, the raven watched. Brown fields lay empty and quiet, and the air was unerringly still at this late hour. The slightest movement would resonate in the bird’s mind like a thunderclap. She was normally a scavenger, but she would not pass up an opportunity to hunt, nowadays more than ever. On cue, she launched from her perch and set upon her prey; a mouse, scuttling between withered stalks. The hapless rodent had taken its chances at the dry goods store of the nearby house, but had been greeted by mere crumbs. Even the mice were lean these days.

The dry corn stalks, which would now bend under the weight of their nutritious burden had they not been picked early this year, could not provide without the help of the local well. But with each pale emerging from the depths with little more than muddy slush, the peasants of these lands struggled to satisfy their own thirst, let alone that of their waning crop. The rodent’s gamble had failed, and its misfortune was the raven’s fortune.

A fleeting death squeal cut the evening tranquillity, for but a fraction of a second, before silence reclaimed the air once more. The raven fed, picking the bones clean, her belly fuller than the residents of the local dwelling. The sun set in a palette of unappreciated crimson and gold, and darkness enveloped the field.

The quiet of day became the quiet of night.

[LeslieMS]

FISTS OF ANGUISH

The night had passed by in slow agony the same as every one since she was told he would never walk the Wyrm’s Crossing again. All too often, she would wake, her arms reaching across the yawning void the bed had become and finding only empty air. More often than not she slept fitfully in his chair by the fireplace, clutching desperately to the pillow he once had laid his head upon at the end of a long day.

The nights were horrible, and each morning they sent her fleeing the modest house that was once a home. Some nights too. Sometimes it was easier to walk than to look at the house. His things were everywhere. Five years wed, and no children. She used to think that a curse… now she wasn’t sure. Was it better that there were no young children to cry for a father they would never see again? Perhaps it was worse since there was no one now to carry his name? At least there was no one keeping her in that empty space. So she fled, every day, into the crowded streets. Into the city he had loved so much, in hopes that it would offer her solace now…

She had given away everything she didn’t need, and all she had the heart too, but it left little of her in the house, and more of him. If they could make use of it, it was better than the dust it would collect here. So many were desolate in the wake of so much, and yet so many more passed over the streets unaware of the suffering in a city that refused to fall, in part because of those who call it home… But so many of the merchants that kept her alive had long since abandoned the Wide, the docks were a barren shadow of what they once were… There were fewer guards patrolling Ducal lands, and from what she had heard, crime was on the rise as people struggled to survive, and others simply chose to profit from the misfortune of others.

She walked past meager fields in the farmlands that in better times when seed was plentiful would wreath the city in green and gold and every shade of Chauntea’s lovely raiment. This season, it reflected much of the city’s current state. It looked more like a ragged beggar’s cloak, tattered patches and far more dirt and dust than fitting of proper attire. Had the Gods turned from them too?

Her breath caught as she realized she stood on the bridge. The uniform of a Flaming Fist stood stark against the depth of night… and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She all but choked on a new wave of grief when his eyes met hers. He was new. Perhaps a younger recruit who had been brought on to fill the devastated ranks of the Fist? He would feed his growing family off of the pay that the Dukes metered out in exchange for protecting the city. She wondered if he knew that he may well one day no longer walk across that bridge?

She turned and faced the river so she didn’t have to bear his sympathetic look. He knew what had drawn her here, for this happened all too often. No doubt saw the grief etched into her once lovely features… It left her looking haggard, far older than the young age of twenty four. Her husband was only two years her senior… Husband… Was… Now she was the widow…

She clung to the stonework of the bridge as though if she clutched the stones tightly enough they would reveal this nightmare as nothing more than a figment, and her beloved would stride across, take her in his arms and hold her again… If she could but shatter the stone of this world that had to be an illusion. He couldn’t be gone.

The realization that it would never come to pass, that her husband was gone tore an anguished sob from her. The ferocity of it would have been enough to topple the bridge had her body truly been able to carry the force of the pain that racked her to her very soul. Her hands pounded the stones until tiny beads of blood formed on her soft white hands. She crumpled, and there, midway across the bridge, she wept not caring who saw her tears. Some may have paused to offer aid… she waved them away. They couldn’t help her. She hadn’t needed help. She needed her husband! HE needed their help! Where were they when he had needed help?

Her grief turned to anger. Where -were- they! Where were they as he marched out to meet Amn on field of battle so that they could go on about their lives? Where were they as he bled and died? Did any of them even care? Were they the “Adventurers” that so many of her husband’s fellows cursed so often? Did they live here? Did they even know her pain… had they lost someone too? How dare they spare her a pitying glance, when he had bled out among his fellows, the dead and dying of the mercenary company’s arms-men… be had bled there amid Amnian spears and the clash of battle. Where had they been then?

She didn’t know, she didn’t care. He had cared for them both. He had taught her to love the city life. The bustle and too and fro… All she knew is that he cared, and she only cared to see him again. He had fought many ills and evils before in his life, done his best to keep his fellows alive and this cursed city safe. Having joined the Flaming Fist as soon as they would take him, he’d lived off of the modest pay. He had made a life for himself, and then for his family like so many who served Duke Eltan. He had grown up here, unlike her, she was just a merchant’s daughter. Her father had been so thrilled for her. The Flaming Fist were an upstanding group of men and women dedicated to defending the Ducal interests. It was a fine match, and the best part was, they loved each other. He had worried his daughter would find herself in a loveless relationship, or none at all.

The tears burned the small cuts on her knuckles, sobs ripped through her still. He had survived so much! So much! Why now? Why did he have to go to Beregost? Was there truly no mercy? Could these men not protect what they loved, and return to it?! There had been battles before, she had seen the Fist march out of the City, and seen less than that return. She had seen what happened to the families left behind. She had pitied the widows, offered sympathy to fatherless and motherless children… And she finally understood how hollow those sentiments had seemed.

It did nothing to assuage her pain, her anger and her sorrow. He was gone. She whispered his name over and over through shuddering breaths and sobs. For a moment she could have sworn she heard him call her name. She lowered her hand and again she could not breathe. Her eyes wandered up the Flaming Fist uniform, and the one next to it. It was the young guardsman who had been patrolling the bridge, and one of Andrew’s dearest friends. The much older man stood, his hand extended to help her up. She stared blankly at his weathered features. It wasn’t Andrew.

“Sarah…”

The older man pleaded. He had grieved too, he had been there, and since his return had to struggle with the loss of many friends. But right now she couldn’t feel sorry for him. She all but hated him. How could he stand here and her dear Andrew not? What right did he have to be among those who survived? She shoved his hand away, curling her knees up to her and choking on her anguish.

“Sarah please… this is no place for you. Let me take you home.”

He reached for her again and she felt herself being lifted to her feet. She pulled away from him and glared up at him. Her lungs ached as she fought to breathe, as though she had spent far too long under water. The world around her had grown dim… The fear she might pass out was replaced by the indignant anger of seeing these two stand before her. The only one she wanted to see was Andrew.

“Go home to what, exactly?!”

He started to speak but she cut him off with a glare, anger was easier than sorrow…

“To the empty house? To hear the memory of him echo endlessly, knowing he’ll never again come home for supper after patrols? No! I’ll wait… I’ll wait for him… Right Here!”

She slumped against the bridge’s support. The younger man shrugged helplessly, and turned his attention to some fool who ran across the bridge with his sword drawn. Didn’t anyone know that a shattered city was still a city? Still a civil place with laws and civil folk who liked to feel they could walk about without getting impaled by some careless twit’s blade? The anger threatened to overwhelm her.

“Alright… not home then. Let me take you to the Helm and Cloak, when was the last time you ate, Sarah?”

“I’m not hungry! I don’t want anything. I want Andrew. I need him here. The Gods can’t keep him… Gods! Please… Just go away. I’d rather drown in the river than continue like this.”

She turned from him to the river that rushed away below. He must have thought she meant to jump… and maybe she did… Because in the next instant his hand was on her shoulder and he was pleading with her to calm down. Reminding her of her exhaustion and telling her that Andrew wouldn’t have wanted that for her…

She couldn’t take it anymore. She turned on him with a choked cry something akin to a scream. She beat her fists on his armored chest until bright red specks of blood stained the crisp white tabard. He absorbed the blows, each one stitching more sorrow into his worn features. She pummeled him until the fury was spent and she collapsed into tears. She buried her face in her hands as he drew her into a supportive hold to keep her from falling. Slowly he lead her back over the bridge to the city… past the struggling fields, her tears watering the ground. In some cruel twist, it was the only watering these lands would see, for there was far too little rain.

“I just want this to be over… I can’t… I can’t…”

He shushed her pitiful murmur. He told her that she was strong, that Andrew would have wanted to come home, and would if he could… That since he couldn’t he was with his god. She scoffed his words. The gods had abandoned them… the city was spiraling into the abyss and dragging all of them with it… He told her that the city was as strong as she was… That someday it would recover from all of this, as it always had. As she always had. She nodded mutely in defeat. She didn’t feel that strong. She didn’t see how any of them could overcome this.

The exertions of her emotions left her in a haze. She didn’t notice the glistening new aspects of the Palace District. She didn’t notice the new faces in Fist Tabards. Though she was keenly aware that each one was not her beloved, and she wanted to hate them for it… but some small voice in her reminded her that they suffered too… Small indeed. It was no comfort.

She drank the warm spiced wine until she was numb and the world and all in it had fallen away. She didn’t remember him walking her home, or the fire he started to drive the chill from the small house, dark and dead, like so much else. She didn’t notice the tea that had since gone cold… Never saw the flames die out into cooling embers… She sat there, unmoving, unthinking… On the inside she was already dying. If this didn’t kill her… Without Andrew… all the world seemed lifeless.

[Deathgrowl]

Dry air, dead earth

Jorge sat on the edge of his dead, dry field looking up at Selûne in the middle of the night. The air was hot still, after another day of scorching sunlight and clear blue skies. It was a calm night with hardly any sounds other than the sound of the soft southern wind and some distant birds. Every now and then, he could hear some raised voices from the neighbouring farms.

Next to him, was a mound and the rusty spade he had used to dig it and then fill it up again. Why had she gone so far south? They had already encountered the bandits multiple times, and they knew many of their friends on the other farms had as well. No one had stood their ground and said no yet. Except her.

The tears came again and he buried his face in his hands. "Melinda, my love, why did you fight back?" he asked and glanced at the mound. She'd always been stubborn and strong-willed. How could he find food for himself and the children now? Hannah was only ten years old, and her little brother, Liam, only six. He couldn't bring them along hunting. It was too dangerous. But so was leaving them home alone. And how was he going to tell them their mother wasn't coming back again?

The last few ten-days he and a few other farmers had teamed up to go hunting. They never found enough game, and none of them were experienced hunters having spent most of their lives farming, but they found the occasional deer or boar. And so far all had shared. The split had been equal. And they had been lucky - only once had they been stopped by bandits on the way home. They took both the two deers they had felled that night. He had wanted to fight back, but the bandits were better equipped and more experienced fighters. And the farmers were tired from the hunt.

A few days before Melinda had been killed by bandits, he and the other farmers had met two black cloaked, hooded men just on the edge of the forest when they were all tired from hunting had found no game. They spoke of the Beastlords and how he could help them in their hunt if they turned to him. Some of the farmers had been more desperate than Jorge, and seemed to heed this advice. Jorge himself had dismissed it at first.

He didn't know much about Malar. The neighbouring farmers had met on a crossroad between their farms and discussed this meeting with the Malarites. One had said that the Beastlord was an evil god and that he'd rather starve than turn to him. Jorge had kept mostly quiet during the conversation. They had heard other farmers around Baldur's Gate saying the game in the Sharp Teeth Woods had been migrating south and that the Beastlord was answering their prayers.

Later that night, they had fought, Melinda and him. She had once aspired to become a priestess of Chauntea before they met. Jorge told her about the meeting with the two Malarites and she was furious that he would even consider such. Chauntea would hear them. He had shouted at her as well. "Look at the fields, Melinda!" he had said. "She's not answering our prayers, no matter how much we beg and cry!" He had been so frustrated - so angry. And now she was gone.

His back ached from the digging, his hands were numb, dirty and bloody. He took the spade and pushed himself up to head inside. He knew he wouldn't get any sleep, but at least he could lie down and rest a bit. And think. What was he going to do now? Great Mother, what was he going to do?

[paw]

Mikey and Mooey

It was a dark night that night, or rather early morn. The moon had faded and clouds hid the stars from sight, but, Mikey arose from his bed in the loft anyways.

He peers out to the other bed in the loft where his three sisters still slept. Molly, the oldest was eleven, then Milly at nine and Sally was but five. He himself was third born and even though his older sisters teased him relentlessly, he took pride in the knowledge that he was the oldest son and would one day work alongside his father and eventually take over the farm. Being only seven himself though, that seemed an eternity away.

He had two younger brothers, Mickey, three, who slept at the foot of his bed and Sammy who being only one still slept in a crib in his parents room behind the curtain, under the loft.

Mikey stood up and pulled off his night shirt, then donned his clothes. Creeping soundlessly to the edge of the loft, he quickly makes his way down the ladder. He could hear his parents murmuring behind the curtain, as usual, but instead of bringing him comfort as it used to ... as it should ... he frowns and slips out the front door and hurries off to the barn.

As he walked to the barn he tried to place why his parents murmuring no longer brought him comfort. What was it that caused him to feel as he did these days. He almost stopped walking when it occurred to him that his parents no longer seemed happy. He could almost make out arguing, or even a sad weeping voice from his mother.

Then he saw it. Or ... did he? There looked to be movement from out of the barn, but when he looked again, he saw nothing. He rubs his eyes, which did seem to still have a bit of sleepiness in them, and shook his head. Nah, there was nothing.

As he opened the barn door and peered inside he smiled, "Mooey!" he said in a happy tone. Mooey was their cow. He had only recently been given the coveted chore of milking her, as Molly was now mostly helping mother with Sammy and other house chores and Milly never seemed to catch on to how to properly tug on the swollen teats to get the milk to come out. "Silly girls" he laughs to himself.

He liked this chore more then any other he had to do on the farm, because he liked talking to Mooey. He could tell Mooey anything and would not get teased, she would never argue or talk back, and she always seemed to listen to everything he had to say.

"Good morning Mooey" he says with a smile as he strokes her muzzle. "I can see you are happy today. Can you tell me why momma sounded so sad this morning? No one around seems to smile, or laugh, or play like they used to." He says placing the bucket in position, gathering his stool and sitting down, patting the cow lovingly.

"Daddy seems so mad all the time ... he doesn't sing or dance around the house like he used to." He continues his dialogue as he grabs the teats and begins his morning ritual of milking Mooey. "And momma, is sick every morning now."

He then suddenly stops his talking.

"Mooey ... what's wrong?" He looks at the cow with great concern now. He works the teats a bit more ... a bit harder ... to the point of Mooey shifting a bit in her discomfort, but, nothing more would come out.

"Mooey?" He looks to the cow, then down to the bucket .. the bucket that was not even a quarter of the way full. "Mooey!" He cries out then calms his voice looking to the barn door, hoping that no one heard.

He sits there a moment thinking. They used to have another cow. Mooeys sister, Milky. It still made him sad to think of her, but when Milky had for whatever reason quit giving milk, she was taken to the butcher. They had all eaten well for some time afterwards, but still. He sighs deeply at the thought.

He never felt that close to Milky as that all happened while his sister was doing the milking, she had taken it hard for a long time, he remembers teasing her about it, after all Milky was just a "dumb cow", but, now it was his chore, he had grown very close to Mooey and could not imagine her no longer being here.

"Mooey, please ... please, you have to fill the bucket ... you have to" He has to fight back tears now as he tries to figure out what to do. "Why aren't you giving more? Are you sick like momma?"

That was it, it had to be, she was just not feeling good. He could find a way to hide it this morning. He looks to the door again as he sets his plan in motion. Dipping one hand into the bucket he wipes it over his face and sprinkles a little bit down the front of his shirt. Satisfied with his work and now confident in his story, he sticks a finger into the corner of both eyes to make them red and watery. A trick he had learned watching his older sister when ever she had wanted something from daddy that she knew otherwise he would refuse.

He put his stool away, and picking up the nearly empty bucket strolls slowly out the barn and to the house where he knew he was about to get a spanking for being so clumsy and spilling the milk. But it would be worth it, for Mooey would be safe.

[Lampir]

A Farmer's Lot in Life
Chapter One: The Prelude to Hunger

Introduction of Players
Mimi, the wise yet stubborn grandmother
Jessi “Mother”, born a farmer’s daughter and now a farmer’s wife.
Rosco “Father”, a steady reliable pioneer
Eunice, the adventurous eldest daughter
Polly Ann, the young precocious daughter
Peter, a bouncing baby boy


War.

It was on the lips and minds of every citizen of the farmlands. War was a disaster, devastation to simple people trying to ilk out a living. News of the Amnian threat spread like wildfire and sent chills down every spine. Stores were boarded up. Fields were harvested early. Cubby holes were jammed with long-lasting food stuffs. Heck, some even buried jars of jellies and preserves. Livestock were sold at a discount, especially steeds, mules and oxen.

War was coming.

Those foolish enough to not sell their livestock were quick to find out their error. As war hit, so, too, did the Fist’s forces.

“It’s war” They said as they ransacked each home, combed over any pot worth using, every jar worth eating. “And an army marches on its stomach.”

And these were the men who protected them, whom the farming community paid hefty taxes to support. They came upon their farms and stores like locusts – leaving virtually nothing.

Rosco was not a fool, nor were his wife Jessi or her mother Mimi. They had prepared long ago, at the very first scent of trouble – even before then if they thought about it. Mimi had insisted, remembering the trials of years long past. Her “Rainy Day Fund” seemed to also include the troubles of war.

So when Eunice and Polly Ann came rushing in telling of Fist coming down the road, Rosco rounded up the hogs with his faithful hound and shooed them into the woods. The hogs were smart beasts, always getting out of their pen anyhow, so Rosco was confident he could find them later.

Though they had harvested and hidden what they could, quite a good deal of their stores could not fit in the hidden places. The girls dutifully made many a run to dump jars into their pond, down into their well, and out into the woods. It was a game of hide and seek. Children are quite good at that.

But notice and planning could only do so much and the Fist did indeed strip their root cellar of all but a few withering vegetables, their storage shelves of all but a few opened and questionable jars and their hanging smoked meat? Well that was of course needed for the war effort.

Jessi cried into Rosco’s chest while the girls stuck out their tongues and called names after the retreating wagons due for the front line. Mimi patted and rocked the panicked little Peter until both mother and child finally stilled their crying.

“They will be back.” Mimi said. “From now on, we will have to take great care with our stores.”

Rosco looked into his frightened wife’s eyes and stroked her hair. “Don’t you worry none. We’ll be just fine. Still got the hogs, still got the farm, still got food and such. We’re smarter than a bunch o’ fighting mercenaries pretending ta protect us. You’ll see.”



But these things… they tend to happen in threes.

[gimchi]

The Eyes of Children

The Broadshaws:1

Arkum and Arkie Broadshaw were as close as any brother and sister could be. They were so close that even their births had been less than a minute apart.

"Holdin' hands in the water them two were. Nine long months holdin' hands before they was born." Grandpa Broadshaw said this proudly over and over again to anyone who cared to listen. He loved his daughter's children with a fierceness that surprised him. Perhaps it had something to do with him having been an only child and never having experienced the delights and aggravations of a sibling. Perhaps it was because he and his wife Molly - god rest her soul - had only had the blessing of a single girl child themselves and so they rarely had opportunities to see their darling Arlenna playing with other children, save at the fairs and the festivals where the people gathered every year to celebrate this or that event. Perhaps it was just the simple pleasure that folk can get from seeing two innocent creatures so devotedly bonded that the world seems a warmer place when they are in it. Whatever the cause, Grandpa Broadshaw's heart filled with pride and love for his grandchildren every time his eyes or thoughts turned in their direction.

Today his heart was full of anything but love. He stood alongside his daughter and son-in-law with his leathery old arms crossed on his chest and glared at the sharp nosed tax collector positioned in front of them. Occasionally he raised his eyes and favored the six members of the Flaming Fist that rode escort for the collector with a glare as well. They were still mounted, had not even had the common decency to get off their horses when they came to visit, and this too infuriated the old man. His whiskered face had turned purple with anger, but he was biting his tongue and allowing Fergal, his daughter's husband to do the talking. "This be a daft thing to be askin'. Where am I suppose ta find that amount o' coin? How's me family supposed ta live if I gives away every copper I make?" said Fergal for the fourth time. Arlenna clutched her husband's arm and her face was as pale as snow.

Arkum and Arkie huddled together in the hollowed-out chamber in the middle of the woodpile, and peered through the slits in the logs at the scene in front of them. Every year when their father rebuilt the woodpile, he made this central chamber for them, and left a crawlspace at the back for entrance. Every year he complained loudly that the space was getting bigger and bigger, and soon it would be the size of a castle. The twins adored him for it, and every spring, when the new logs were split and stacked to season and dry ready for winter, they would squeal with excitement when he said their special house was ready again. Today they were not squealing with joy. Today they watched in frightened silence as their world was turned upside down.

They were used to their father, mother and grandfather being the most powerful forces in their young lives. When the terrible storms of winter came, or when the occasional wolf came down from the hills and threatened the livestock, whenever anything scary happened it was those three that stood like giants in their minds, and drove away all the danger and folded them safely in their arms. Now they watched as their lifelong protectors were turned into helpless victims by the men in the shining white armor.

The voices of their father and the collector had got louder and louder and then grandpa suddenly stepped up and pushed the tax man in the chest. "Thirty- three percent! Thirty-three percent!" he bellowed. "Ye be nothin' but highwaymen and thieves!" He pushed the tax collector again as he shouted in fury. The response from the Fist was immediate. The six horses spurred forward, creating a gap between the collector and the Broadshaws. One man struck their grandpa a blow with the pommel of his sword and the old man dropped like a slingshot rabbit. Their mother Arlenna was bowled to the ground and disappeared beneath the hooves of the horses. The tip of a lance had been placed against their father's chest and he was being forced backwards, calling Arlenna's name and cursing the soldiers. Arkum and Arkie cried out in fear, their clear, high screams rising above the rest of the noise and one of the Fist reared his horse and came to investigate. "Come out o' that woodpile afore I comes in and get ya," he threatened.

They crawled out of their secret castle and the mercenary herded them toward their family. The soldiers had cleared a circle, and in the center they could see their father huddled over their mother. Her head was in his lap and she was as still and unmoving as their grandfather lying in the dust close by. Arkum and Arkie were sobbing now, the sounds heaving their chests as tears poured down their little faces. Step by step they got closer to the figures on the ground. The twins were holding hands as usual, but this time they were clenched so tightly together that their knuckles were as white as death.

The tax man mounted his horse. "We'll be back at the end of the month to collect," he said in a voice with no hint of remorse or compassion. He waved a hand in a lazy circle and the men from the city turned their mounts and rode away. In the dust and despair they left behind them, in the hearts and minds of what had been a simple, law-abiding farming family, something new, something ugly, was about to be born.

[b00seven]

Encircling the Field Men -
-continued from SURVIVAL AMID THE SQUALOR in Fading with the Sun

Another quiet night at the Gate. And here I am watching, I strech upon my perch, ever watchful, my gaze narrows to mark my prey. A blade crashes down, my eyes dart to the East. I peer through the sewer grate. Squint at the night. Another lost bounty, another who will feast tonight. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that it will not be I.

I spread my wings and take to flight. To the East, I fly over the city, steam rises from the freshly rained on alleys, I leave the squalor of the Gate behind. Perhaps the farmers will have a better bounty for me amid the quiet of night.

----------
Past the towers, past the trees, past the guard posts, the fields, stretch out, squared off, roughly cut squares into the terrain otherwise wrought by nature. Steam rises from the fields. The earth warmed by day is hit by the cold of night. With it a stench, rot, death, pestilence. The moon´s beams pass through the steam, and cast shadows upon the fields.

The field men watch me, silent, swaying in the wind. They have long stood watch over the fields. Long after the field hands have called it a day. Long after the sun departs and the moon rises. Always the field men... upon their perches, waiting, watching. I find a fence post upon which to perch. My eyes mark the field men, always with their funny hats, their arms poised, ready to pounce.

Today the rumble of my stomach bolsters my pride. Today I brave the fields. Field men be damned....

-----

Third field I brave. The field men continue to watch me, and my eyes upon them. The third field- like the two before it - barren. Rotting husks, dried stalks, not a morsel to be found... and the field men, ever watching, ever mocking me in my hunger.

A noise... something aproaches. I take to the skies, circling, eyes darting over the land, around, and around, and around again. A hunter, no... the farmer, a bow and arrow over his shoulder. I perch upon the roof. The door opens, his woman inside, the hunter dissapointed... then angry, the woman sad. The light from the door crawls along the field... the field men... My eyes return to my tormentor, yet there he sits... waiting, watching, taunting me. I cannot drop my guard lest the field men pounce... the light retreats, more swiftly than it was drawn out from within the cottage. Then vanishes with a ´THUD´... I take to flight once again, circling around, around, and around.

Only the field men and myself remain, amid the dead rotting fields. I drop again, always mindful of the field men. More husks, more stalks, not a morsel to eat. It must be the field men. They must be the ones who hoard the food. My stomach rumbles as I glare at them! I hate them! And there they stand, waiting, watching, plotting. I can hear it ´whirl, whirl whirl.´ Again, I take to flight again. Circling around, around, around and around.

The field men, I will fear them no longer, I will attack them, take out their eyes, gnaw at their flesh, the field men will torment me no more, nor the hunger, nor the quiet of night... ´whirl, whirl whirl.´

I make my move. I dive, further, faster, the field man in my sights. I have him now, he will torment me no more, and I shall feed. I land, first knocking off his silly hat, then clawing at his head, his eyes, I strike with fervor. But what is this; more husks, more stalks, not a morsel to eat... ´whirl, whirl whirl.´ ... What is this? The field men are no threat, laughter fills my insides... the field men... my tormentors... nothing... ´whirl, whirl whirl.´ ... nothing... nothing to eat... my stomach rumbles...´whirl, whirl whirl.´ I call out in the night... the quiet of night.... ´whirl, whirl whirl.´.... my stomach rumbles... the whirling stops...

...

...

...

THUD!
...

I am falling...

...

something is coming

...

it is closer
...

darkness envelops me...




----------------------------------

He stirs me and I awaken. Quickly shake my head to clear the sleep... he pushes me again, calls my name, and I rise... My friend wakes me.

But the master arrives, the master arrives... alone, and with no bounty. The mistress is crying... the master is angry... my friend wakes me ´shhhH!!!!´my friend bids me quiet... my friend climbs the bed, and calls me to him. I come to my friend. He opens the window... he has something with him... we go out the window.

´shhhh!!!` my friend bids me silence. I go low to the ground, smell the air, look around. My friend prepares for battle. He prepares his weapon... arms it... whirls it through the air. I am close to the ground now.. my friend and I go to battle... I close in... quietly, slowly.

My friend holds with the weapon, I search for our enemy. I see it, dark as night, it evades my eyes, but not those of my friend. It is quick, it is moving... I want to catch it... I want to catch it... but my friend bids me calm... quiet... i remain silent.

My friend releases the weapon... It flies through the air... all is silent... all is still... except the weapon ... It strikes our foe... I rush out of my hiding spot. I see our foe falling, it lands with a thud, it is still... I pounce upon it, my friend yells at our victory, the master and the mistress are awoken.

I have our prize!!! I must bring it to my friend!!! the master and mistress will be happy...

[Lampir]

A Farmer’s Lot in Life
Chapter Two: One Bad Turn Deserves…


Introduction of Players
The Setter Family
Mimi, the wise yet stubborn grandmother
Jessi “Mother”, born a farmer’s daughter and now a farmer’s wife.
Rosco “Father”, a steady reliable pioneer
Eunice, the adventurous eldest daughter
Polly Ann, the young precocious daughter
Peter, a bouncing baby boy


Days became weeks, weeks became months.

Jessi turned the withered vegetables into seedlings of potatoes, carrots and onions. She separated and planted them in their garden. She weeded and planted what seed they’d saved for such a time as this in hopes of a late crop.

Rosco took his daughters out to the seashore where they foraged for recently washed up fish, dug for mussels, gathered up seaweed and filled the big clay jars with seawater. The seawater was boiled and dried to become salt, which Rosco bartered with the Hendersons down the road for the use of their smokehouse, preserving fish and later two big hogs as Rosco got nervous about the Fist returning and stealing his herd.

Those were still good days. They were used to living on less than most. Jessi made each jar last and each bit of bread count. They were even able to celebrate Eunice’s birthday with a new woolen dress. It had cost the family one of their spring piglets, but it had been worth it to see her eyes light up. Mimi had turned a few yards of cloth and ribbon not only into a dress, but also some socks and a matching hair-tie.

It was one of those celebrations that made you forget all you were missing and remember that joy comes in the smallest of things.

But, it was not to last. The Fist did indeed return and this time Rosco had no early notice to hide his pigs. The whole herd, the family’s best means of survival, was gone.

Only weeks later came a visit from the man who owned the Setter family’s farm: Cailen Turnstead.

Cailen wasn’t an overly pompous prick, but he wasn’t an angel either. His wallet was hurting as his land and its production was stripped bare by the war effort. The Fist of course compensated him, but at a meager fraction of what he could have upsold it for.

It was time to put in a call on his debts, and this family had a substantial debt.

“Mr. Turnstead you know good and well we ain’t got the money just now.” Rosco frowned, holding his hat with calloused fingers.

Across the rough wooden table Cailen nodded. “All the same I’m not running a charity here Mr. Setter. You’re well over a year behind on your payments.”

“And what do you want me to pay you with? The little weeds what are growing in the fields right now?” Rosco’s face turned an indignant red. “I can get you a half a share of pork but any more and my family’ll starve now.”

“That’s barely a dent in what you owe.” Cailen frowned. “You will have to do better than that.”

“What do you want from me, man? Little Pete’s got a cough and I can’t even get him medicine right now. If you think I’m holding out on you you’d best be getting another thought in your head.”

The man sighed and pinched his nose. “I need something. We’re all in hard times. What about your girl, Eunice? She’s old enough. Send her to work in my house to pay off your debts.”

“MY GIRL!?”

“PLEASE Mr. Setter, calm yourself.”

“I WILL NOT BE CALM!” Rosco found himself standing, his hands flat against the table. “YOU’LL NOT TOUCH MY LITTLE GIRL YOU GOB OF WEASEL SPIT!”

“Now see here!” Cailen stood up himself, scowling and shaking a finger at the raging man. “You need to pay your debts. I don’t want to throw your family out of this land but I’ll-“

He didn’t get any further before Rosco balled up his hand and sent every pound of wood-chopping, field-plowing muscle into Cailen’s face. The man fell backwards like a sack of potatoes.

Rosco stood there, chest heaving – face, neck and ears red at the idea of Cailen getting his slimy hands on his daughter. Alone and defenseless in that man’s clutches. His little girl. He was so angry at the idea that he started to kick Cailen over and over with his weather beaten boots.

“STAY. AWAY. FROM. MY. DAMNED. FARM. YOU. SICK. MONSTER.” Each word punctuated with a fierce kick.

Jessi finally ran into the room and pulled on Rosco’s arm.

“No.. no honey please stop! You’ll kill him!”

“Maybe he deserves ta die.” Rosco spit to the side but complied with Jessi’s pleas. He looked into his wife’s tear-strewn eyes and sighed. “Damned if I done screwed up, huh sweetheart?”

Jessi smiled sadly and kissed him. “Clean out the trash, dear. I’ll get supper on.”

So it was that Rosco hefted the groaning noble and tossed him onto the road. Jessi made up a special dinner that the family ate together. Rosco took his girls on ‘pony rides’ on his back and told them how much he loved them. He gave each one a kiss goodnight then went out into the night with Jessi, waiting for the inevitable.

It was just past sunset when the Fist rode up to take Rosco away. Cailen sat on the paddy wagon, bruised face and wrapped chest proof of Rosco’s assault. “That’s him officers.” He pointed with murder in his eyes.

Rosco wrapped Jessi in his arms again and kissed her tears away. “I’ll be back.” Rosco promised. “You look after the girls. You be strong for ‘em. I’ll be back.”

Cailen’s dark scowl promised he’d make sure it took Rosco a long, long time before he made it out of jail…

If ever.

[Lampir]

A Farmer’s Lot in Life
Chapter Three: The First Taste is Free


Introduction of Players
Mimi, the wise yet stubborn grandmother
Jessi “Mother”, born a farmer’s daughter and now a farmer’s wife.
Eunice, the adventurous eldest daughter
Polly Ann, the young precocious daughter
Peter, a bouncing baby boy
Frankye Renfrow, well to-do homesteader
David Renfrow, successful farmer

The war was no sooner over than the dragons came.

Dragons.

Real. Fire breathing. Acid spitting. Cold screaming. Lightning gnashing. Dragons.

Polly Ann had run in screaming about them and Jessi has harshly spanked her for telling tales. Then the roars began and the four women with their baby boy ran into the root cellar to hide. It was hours of terror like they had never known. The ground shook, men and women screamed, terrible sounds, horrifying smells would sear this day in their memories forever.

Even Peter ran out of tears and breath before the battle ended.

No one opened the door that night. No one left the root cellar, stinking of urine and sweat and fear, until dawn broke.

There was no rooster to call the morning. Its silence was ominous as Jessi pushed open the door and crawled out. That was one blessing, she thought, that the cellar was empty, else they wouldn’t have all fit in that tight space.

The farm was ruined. The crops were scorched and frozen. The fields were dug with thick furrows where something massive had landed, struggled and then left again. Their house had stood somehow, though its roof had been sheered clean off, as if it had been made of butter.

Jessi must have fainted because their faithful dog was suddenly licking her face. No one spoke for a long time until finally Mimi took matronly charge and began to send the girls in search of broken timbers and anything else that could be used to make something of a roof.

“But mother I don’t know how to make a roof.” Jessi protested when the girls were out of ear-shot.

“It’s times like this, sweetheart, we gotta put down our pride and ask for help.” Mimi patted Jessi on the hand, Peter in her other arm. “Go to the Renfrows, see if they can help some ladies down on their luck.”

Jessie nodded numbly and, like her daughters, left on the assigned task with a sort of ghost-like autonomy.

David Renfrow was outside. At his side was a sheathed blade, on his back was a brace of arrows and a bow. He was wearing his hunting leathers and had the worn look of someone who had not seen sleep for two days. His field had not fared much better, but two cattle remained, tied to a broken fence, and his home was intact by what seemed sheer luck.

“Evening Mrs. Setter.” He touched his brow in hello as she walked up bedraggled and filthy. This didn’t seem to bother him - it was probably par for the course after what had happened.

The two exchanged looks and Jessi opened her mouth to ask for help, but it was finally all too much for her. She fell to her knees sobbing. David frowned and, after a quick scan of the area again, moved up to help her. “There, there Mrs. Setter. What’s the matter?”

“Can’t you see the poor dear’s plum overwhelmed?” Called a drawling female voice as Frankye Renfrow stepped out of the house, wiping bloody hands on her apron. “Bring her inside husband of mine, I’ll put on some hot tea.”

The Renfrow’s home was a mess. In many ways it was just like the Setter’s small abode. The Renfrows had lost their chicken coup to falling debris and Frankye was busy trying to bleed, gut and preserve the dead roost of chickens while the meat was still good. She worked by the back door as Jessie told her tale for a good several hours.

“Of all the terrible luck!” Frankye exclaimed as Jessi finished her second tea and her story. “Why, it almost sounds like someone is plum out to get you, sugar.”

Jessi nodded numbly. She was out of tears again. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“Well it seems to me you have one of two choices.” David stepped in from his guard post out front, frowning seriously. “You can keep being a victim or you can start taking matters into your own hand.”

“Now dear I’m not sure this is the time…” Frankye said with concern.

“Hells woman, when is the time? We’ll all be dead waiting on peace and love. What has anyone given us? Nothing. It’s survival of the fittest here.”

Frankye looked about to argue but Jessi cut in. “I’m.. I’m tired of being trampled.” Her voice wavered but got steadier, angrier with each sentence. “I’m tired of being bullied. I’m tired of my husband being locked away because some bastard couldn’t keep his eyes off our little girl. I’m tired of being a victim. I don’t want to be one anymore.”

The Renfrows looked at the conviction burning in her eyes, then shared a glance and smiled coyly to each other with a knowing nod. “I think she might just be ready, dear.”

David took Jessi’s hand and looked steadily into her eyes. “You don’t got to be a victim no more. You don’t got to just sit there and take it neither.”

He paused uncertainly, then took a breath and said softly. “Let me tell you about Malar, Jessi.”

[Lampir]

A Farmer’s Lot in Life
Chapter Four: One Thing Leads To Another

“No, no. Absolutely not!” Mimi scowled, hands on her hips in full mother mode.

“We don’t got any other choice mother!” Jessi waved her hands in placation.

“No child of mine is worshipping some demented evil god, even if it does put food on the table.”

Jessi looked at Mimi’s half-eaten chicken. She had stopped eating and shooed the girls outside when Jessi had dropped the word ‘Malar’ in dinnertime conversation. The old woman had refused to eat another bite of the much-needed meat.

“You’re not bein fair ma! They’re good folk. You know that. It’s just a god. What good or bad has any god done us? But if I do their dances and such they’ll help me out. I’ll be a part of their club you see?”

“You’ll go find someone else to help us.” Mimi’s words wavered with soft rage.

“WHO!?” Jessi screamed. “THE FIST?! ROSCO?! YOU?!”

Mimi’s voice got quieter, which only made the soft rage in her voice intensify in a way Jessi’s screaming could never match. “We’ll find a way.”

“THERE IS NO OTHER WAY!!!”

“Jessi, we’ll find another way or, Chauntea help me, I’ll take the children and leave you to your folly. They don’t deserve the sort of bad luck you’ll bring on them.”

“BAD LUCK!?” Jessi laughed. “Oh yeah that’s rich, real rich. You call –this- good luck?!”

“This discussion is over.” Mimi’s lip quavered and she got up, walking outside.

Jessi kicked over the box she’d been using as a chair, anger filling her hot with humiliation and frustration. The Renfrows were nice people! They’d already offered to help get a tarp over their home and given her a chicken to feed the family. She could make it stretch with soups for half a week at least.

Suddenly a cold fear washed over her and she hurried outside. What if Mimi took.. what if she?! … “Girls?! Girls!”

“Here mother!” Called the singsong voice of Polly Ann.

Jessi grabbed her heart and breathed a sigh of relief. They were alright…

But Mimi didn’t come back.

……….

It was two days later that Rosco returned. He looked half starved, dazed at the destruction he saw, but even so, his face lit up when his two little girls came running out with squeals of delight.

Jessi’s reception was no less emotional and with tears the family reunited.
The community rallied together, gathering at one homestead each week. All the men would cut wood, plow fields, fix homes and fencing while the women would plant seeds, sew linens, cook for the hungry men and mind the children. This would go on for a week at each home, then they would all move on to the next.

Some noblemen, seeing profit in quickly recovered fields sent in men or supplies but this was rare after the devastation of the palace district. What was more regular was that, in the advent of the attack, the farmlands where nearly silent. No visitors, no tax collectors, no debt collectors, few guards. Everyone was busy with their own troubles.

Slowly the farmlands began to recover.

Most nights neither Rosco nor Jessi had the energy to ask each other what had happened while they had been separated, but when the call came for Jessi to come to ‘service’ she finally had to face her husband.

Only… she couldn’t. She couldn’t risk losing him the way she’d lost Mimi. Malar had brought Rosco back to her, when she’d needed him most. Malar actually –listened-. And since her praying the fields were recovering and food was at least available if not plentiful.

So it was that she snuck out at night to meet the other cultists in the woods.

[paw]

Mikey and Mooey

As he goes to bed that night, without dinner, and with welts so severe that he hurts with each movement, he thinks to himself "Why daddy, why so hard?". He cannot ever remember being beaten like that, even after he broke one of mommas tea cups. He closes his moist eyes wondering if he would have stopped at all had momma not thrown herself between daddy and himself.

Try as he may he cannot get comfortable enough to go to sleep. After several hours of tossing and turning, the occasional moan of discomfort escaping from his lips, he sits up. All is quiet now, it is too early to milk Mooey. But. He sits up and slips out of bed and to the ladder, not bothering to change out of his night clothes, he scampers down the ladder and out the front door to the barn heading to the one friend he has who will understand. The one and only one who will listen to his complaints in quiet sympathy.

"Mooey" he says as he opens the barn door. Then he stops and stares. "Who are you?" his mind begins racing "What do you want?" Who would be in here ... with Mooey ... on his stool ... with their own bucket? He turns to run when all of a sudden someone steps out in front to block him, grabbing him tight and covering his mouth with his hand. Mikey's eyes go wide and he tries but only muffled screams escape from his mouth.

The man who now has Mikey in his arms and the lady milking the cow now exchange glances. "What do we do now?" she questions.

"Only one thing we can do that I see" he says with a determined voice.

"Oh Gods no ... we can't" The color in her face seems to fade away "He is just a little boy"

"Does Malar care about the age of his foe?" his voice is wavering now, as if he is trying to convince himself as much as her "Tis survival of the fittest to the best of my recollection"

Mikey has gone limp now as he listens to the two, not knowing what to do. He looks to Mooey with moist blinking eyes as she looks back to him. Oh Mooey, please, do something, anything, everything, make noise, make loud noise, wake daddy!

Almost as if on que, Mooey gives out a long bellowing "MOOOOOooooo"

As mooey bellows, Mikey bites with all his might upon the hand that had slightly relaxed. The man yelps and drops Mikey, swinging with his other hand Mikey goes flying across the barn .. and all goes dark.

[gimchi]

The Eyes of Children

The Huntlord:1

The last of the blood had stopped flowing soon after his killing strike had opened it's throat, but there had been just enough to fill the sacred chalice. A smile twisted Jarnag Karnagar's face, though none of those kneeling on the cold stone floor behind him could see it.

This is perfect. Today my efforts are being repaid. Today I will scribe the first words of a new chapter in the name of our glorious God.

He studied the body lying in front of him with practiced appraisal. He took note of the arrows that pierced it at shoulder, back, and buttock, and he looked at the stab wounds that punctured it's arms and legs in random patterns. It's chest was unwounded, the only blood there came from the gush and spatter of the death blow, and this pleased the Huntlord greatly. They had done well, driving the thing before them always, pulling back whenever it turned at bay, then pursuing fast when it turned and fled again. With the exception of one young fool who had charged directly at it and had his ignorant neck snapped like a twig, they had all followed orders.

"At least five of you behind it at all times. You make noise, lot's of noise. Howl out your hunger. Howl out your lust. Howl for it's bloody death. After we drive it from the first chamber, the rest of you take the side tunnels. Get in front of it and lay in wait. Those of you with bows a three quarter draw only and try to avoid the legs. Release only when it has passed. We want it to run forward, not drive it back."

Jarnag had looked at them one by one, seeing the faces pale with fear or pinched tight in desperate determination and once more he pressed his will upon them all.

"Those of you with spears use the rock shelters we have built in the narrow sections. Get into them, stay low and stab at it as it passes but strike no killing blows or disabling wounds. Drive in the tips of the spears only. We want it to bleed from a hundred cuts. We want it to run until it can run no more. We want to smell it's fear. You know all this. We have practiced this. You know the route we will herd it along. When I sound the horn the Hunt begins."

The Orc was even uglier in death than it had been in life, but it's brutish appearance was perfect for his needs. He would remove the head later, peel away the flesh and mount the great tusked skull behind the altar as the first trophy. The metal of the chalice warmed between his palms and as always it seemed that the host of animals embossed on it's surface began to writhe against his skin. He raised the blood-filled cup high above his head, held it suspended there for a minute, then placed it down carefully and stretched his arms out wide. In the flickering torchlight the long metal talons fitted over his knuckles gleamed in silver tipped with red. He knew how to be dramatic. He knew exactly how to heighten the impact on the sensibilities of these simple peasant folk.

David Renfrew hurried forward as he had been coached to do and slid the Claws of Malar from the priest's outstretched hands. He raised the great white bear skin cloak, draped it over Jarnag's shoulders then settled the fanged headpiece in place. Jarnag turned slowly till he faced his little congregation. The white purity of the cloak contrasted stunningly with his crimson hunt clothes, and he held his pose, arms still wide open, as though preparing to embrace them all. Renfrew brought him the cup again, and as he took it he nodded in approval at the eager man.

I chose well with my first acolyte. These caverns are superb for our purpose, and rival those of the Undermountain beneath Mt.Waterdeep. He has already brought more of the locals into the fold and will bring me yet more. He learns quickly. Given time he will help me ensure there will be no more expansion of farmlands here, nor any new settlements. They are a blight on the face of the wilderness, and a direct insult to my Lord. If we can see that the farms now abandoned continue to be neglected, and eventually returned to the forest, he will be mightily pleased with us all. I should make example of a woodcutter or two as well. David can select some names for me.

He moved forward, dipped his fingers in the cup and drew a stylized hand with talons - the symbol of the Beastlord - on the first man's forehead, then offered the cup to sip from.

"Hear us Mighty Malar," he intoned, and the people echoed his words.

"The Hunt has finished. The Beast that dwells within us all was released to run free. The Prey has been taken."

Their voices chanted the words again, "The Prey has been taken!"

"We drink now of it's blood and bring glory to your name oh Lord of Beasts."

"Glory to His Name!"

He moved to the next in line and repeated the ritual. His eyes strayed to the girl a little further up the line.

What was her name? Deely? Deliah? No matter, she was still young enough, perhaps sixteen summers, well formed and as stupid as a sheep. She would serve him well.

He arrived in front of her at at last and marked her like the others as he spoke the holy words. He let his fingers trail slowly down her cheek then brush across her lips. She gasped and her eyes flew open as she tasted the blood. Jarnag looked into them with anticipation and watched closely as her pupils dilated till the irises were just a thin colored ring surrounding the darkness. He was certain he could see the last of the innocence there swept away in the rush of shock and desire that swirled though her.

He finished the chant and the voices rose again in chorus and rolled around the limestone cave like the irresistible thunder of heartbeats in a lover's chest.

"Glory to your name oh Lord of Beasts!"

How blessed I am. How honored I am to be given this new land to consecrate in Malar's name. And how I do love the eyes of my little lambs.

He smiled with genuine pleasure as he moved to the next solemnly upturned face.

[paw]

Mikey and Mooey

Mikey slowly opens his eyes, every part of his little body is in pain as he attempts to roll out of bed to make his way to the ... There is no ladder ... he is not in bed ... he is not in the loft ... Through the pain he sits up with a start and stares wild eyed around the room. He is in the barn! As he begins his search for those who had invaded, he is suddenly nudged from behind. "Mooey!" he all but cries in his pain yet smiles broadly as he hugs the cows muzzle.

"Hey there sleepy head" He turns to look in the direction of the voice and sees his older sister, Molly. She is smiling at him and holds a full bucket of milk in one hand. "Now -you- do not move, I have to take this up to the house, then will be right back." She turns and heads out the barn as quickly as she can, carrying the bucket without spilling it.

He turns his attention back to Mooey who now has her head so close to him he cannot move other then to lovingly scritch her forehead and ears.

Within moments of Molly's departure, the barn door opens again and in comes mommy with a full plate of food ... fuller then he had seen in months. "Mikey" she says cheerfully as she hurries to his side handing him the plate of food. "You gave us quite a scare you know, but it is all better now .... you are all better now."

His head spins as he tries to piece together why he is here, what is it that happened, and the food, while smelling delicious is nothing like he had seen in the house before ... nuts, berries ... what was going on?

As he begins to eat, his mother begins to tell the tale, without him even having to ask. "We did not hear you leave the house that morning. If not for Mooey raising such a ruccus. If not for Mooey kicking the man in the head when he bent over to grab you again. If not for Mooey refusing to be more then two steps from you ever since." She looks to the cow with eyes of near disbelief. "There is no telling how this would have all gone, or whether or not ..." Her voice breaks at this pont and she turns her head to wipe away fresh tears.

"What?!" Firm disbelief is in his tone. "Mooey would -never- kick anyone. She does not even swat at the flies that buzz her in the summer heat"

"Apparently you walked in on Jacob and Janette, who were involved in stealing from us .. and other farms for miles around. They had lost everything they had, house, animals, crops and family." She hesitates again wiping her eyes. "to the dragon battles that happened but a few miles from here." She pauses a moment longer, combing his wild hair back into place with her fingers.

He looks down remembering those nights, and days they had all spent in the storm cellar listening to the roars in terror, all huddled together for comfort. They had been luckier then most, seeming to be just the right distance away to not suffer any damage from the fighting.

"Well, when we heard all the commotion out here, in the barn, your father and I came running. As we burst through the door, your father a few steps ahead of me. Janette was over there, looking at her husband who had been killed outright when Mooey kicked him in the temple, but craddling you, lieing limp, and appearing just as lifeless ..." she bursts into tears anew and takes quite some time before she can continue. Mikey tries to move to give her a hug, but once again Mooey does not allow him to do more then reach out his hands.

Once she regains her composure and kisses his forehead in apology and love, she continues. "you were alive ... but barely" She still chokes and struggles to continue with her tale. " We got you laid out in the straw here ... afraid to move you further .... I can mend and cure many things ... but ... all ... I ... could do ... is ... make you ... comfortable" Her words now come between deep sobs, a smile on her face but a helpless tone in her voice.

"About that time, your father seemed to think of something and jumped to his feet, running out the barn at a pace I have never seen before. When he returned, he had a woman close to his heels. It seems your father had been talking to some of the others and met with a druid who promised to help bring rain to our farms. Well .. the woman who followed your father was one of those druids. She spent much time looking you over, questioning us as to what happened, seeming most interested in Mooey's role and how she behaved. She knelt in prayer for a while, then began chanting over you. Her magics brought you back from the brink of death." She bites her bottom lip as a new rush of tears stream down her cheeks. " She blessed us with a second chance ... to raise you proper."

"Your father has changed, much for the better, because of all this. He is not nearly as angry, and even now he is with a group of rangers who have come to teach the men of the farms how to shoot a bow so that they may hunt and forage in the forest." She smiles proudly as she nods towards what little remains on his own plate.

"Now! ... with that being told ... you and this ... uhm .. companion? of yours, i think that is what the druid called her" she says while nodding towards Mooey "need to get more rest. You are healing well ... and the druid said you would heal completely if you get the proper rest, but, you still have a ways to go."

"Your sisters will be sent in , in turns, to keep you and Mooey company, as they have for the past 3 days ..."

"THREE DAYS!" he interrupts eyes wide once again.

"yes, three days" she smiles once again and kisses his forehead as she does "now rest" she stands and walks to the door, turning to look at him once more, obviously crying once again.

She steps aside a moment allowing Milly to enter grinning as she sees her brother awake, then continues out the door.

[Lampir]

A Farmer’s Lot in Life
Chapter Five: Down the Rabbit Hole

Hadn’t been the same since I got back. Guess I figured when I did, what’d happened would all wash away. Wouldn’t think about what I’d done, just be back with my wife and my children and be done with this damned curse of a nightmare.

But it weren’t the same.

Mimi was gone for one, the house and land looked like a dragon’ed hit it. … Which is mostly what happened I guess. The girls are more quiet, but Jessi.. Jessi scares me most of all.

She’s hiding something.

I ain’t been away long enough I’ve forgotten the signs of her lying to me. I see that David watching her real close and I don’t like it. I don’t like the smell of it at all. Been waiting for things to calm down before I deal with that man. If he’s been touching my wife, well, we’ll be having more than words you can be sure.

I’m not exactly proud of what I learned in jail, but I’ll sure as hell put it to use against that snake. … Nah. … Just wait until things settle, Rosco. You can do that. You still got half a mind: use it.

Guess she thought I was asleep. I weren’t. Or at least, I learned how to be a light sleeper and her rustling out of bed wakes me near every night she goes to use the outhouse. I lie awake and listen for the scrape of the outhouse door. I wait until I hear her patter back into the room and slide under the covers with me.

Only this night? This night I don’t hear the scrape of the outhouse door.

I wait, but nothing. My gut tells me something is wrong and I’m out of bed quick as a wink. I run out the house, into the night with nothing but some britches I yanked on the way down.

Nothing.

She ain’t in the outhouse. She ain’t anywhere. Then I catch it, a blur of movement along the road. … At night? Did someone take my wife?!

I feel that old heat rise from my gut. I grab the first thing I lay hands on, a shovel, and head up the road. Only, come to find out Jessi isn’t kidnapped. She’s running off. But where too? Where’s she running off to? And then I remember this is the way to the Renfrow place. That fire in my belly gets bigger.

I slow down.

I follow.

…………………

I pushed through the brush, following the old deer path David uses to cover our tracks. They were waiting for me. It was a red moon tonight, a blood moon, and that was important, apparently. Some sorta sign.

It wasn’t easy to accept some of the brutality of this group. Everything’s a fight. At first it scared the living daylights outta me. But then I saw it for what it was. They were toughening me up.

That was good, because I’d have lost my mind with just me and the girls and little Pete on my own. But they said I had steel in me and that’s something I’m living up to. My ‘weapon’ if you can call it that is my garden spade. It’s not as fancy as the real swords some of our Hunt have, but no one questions a sharp garden spade when you’ve got tough rocky dirt to move.

Mostly though, I don’t fight with weapons. The women said I needed to learn a lot first, but I carry my spade anyway. I won’t have some bastard touch me. I see sometimes in their eyes that they’re maybe thinking about it.

That’s right, Malar’s right. I’m strong and I’m made of steel and I sure as hell ain’t going to let anyone but Rosco touch me. I’m getting distracted thinking about him as David starts talkin while we wait for Jarnag. I wish I could tell my husband about this. I just don’t know how.

David breaks me outta my thinking when he calls me up. I don’t know why. Did I do something wrong? Does he know? I walk up and he makes to put a hand on my shoulder. I go for my spade to tell him to back off when-

When my half-nekkid husband comes running outta the woods like a madman, shovel waving around in the air.

What the… hell?

All heck breaks loose in the Hunt. David falls back as Rosco’s shovel catches him off-guard. Blood flies. There’s screaming and hollering and half a dozen men tackle Rosco to the ground.

“Yah keep yer damned hands off my wife!”

Times like this remind me why I love this man.


………………………

What the hell just happened? He came out of nowhere. My jaw hurts like hell. Mmm, yep looks like I lost a tooth.

I spit it out with some blood and wipe what’s left from my mouth with the back of my sleeve. All the shouting and kicking tells me people are beating down the attacker. Damn if the Huntlord isn’t quick to teach them proper.

Doesn’t take me long to get up and see that the man on the ground is none other than –

“Rosco?”

The name slurs as I try to speak without my tooth, but I wave the men away. Felix hands me the shovel Rosco’d hit me with. I can feel the outraged eyes of the Hunt on him. What am I supposed to do?

That’s when I hear the Huntlord’s dark laugh. It’s creepy as hell but it draws a shudder down my neck like you wouldn’t believe. Man’s powerful, real powerful. I’d kill for that sorta power.

The Huntlord looks over Rosco. He’s barefoot, bare-chested and looks like a wild thing that just leapt out of the woods.

Rosco growls at me. “If you think your men’ll keep me from ripping you limb from limb you’ve-“

I bristle. “Hold your damn horses Rosco. I wasn’t going to do nothing to her.”

This calms him down. He starts to look around, around all the people in ragged armor with makeshift spears and swords and bows. He looks up at the towering figure of Jarnag, the Huntlord, and slowly some survival instinct hushes his words.

“Then what? What’d I walk into?” he asks. He stays submissive. He doesn’t try to get up. Maybe something he learned in prison – save your energy for when you can win the fight.

Jarnag grins like a shark at the moment, at the sheer irony, then tells me to hand him his shovel. I explain who this man is as I do, hurriedly, hushed. Its important Jarnag know.

He nods after a second. “Well done acolyte, there might just be a reward for you soon.” I straighten up proudly as he motions to Rosco and Jessi.

“You two will come forth.”

Jessi walks up and helps her husband stand. They exchange looks and I expect there’s going to be one hell of a fight later. But Jarnag commands attention, running his fingers over my blood what’s still on the shovel.

“Your… wife, is it? … is already quite the fighter. An excellent initiate to Malar.”

Again the pair exchange glances. Rosco looks like he just got the wind kicked out of him.

“And you. You are an intruder, a trespasser… a danger.”

I’m watching the pair and I see Jessi reach to where she’s hidden her garden tool. So as the Huntlord talks I sidle around behind her.

“But, here you are, wild as any beast and I see in your eyes a rage that might not even die when your body does. That interests me. That… is a sign.”

Jarnag reaches out with his clawed hand and Jessi goes to yank out her weapon but I’m ready and I grab her arms tightly, holding her against me. She shouts and Rosco spins to attack.

“Stop.”

The Huntlord's voice reverberates through the woods. Animals stop screeching, the wind stops blowing. It’s like the word reached into me and grabbed hold of my body. We’re all frozen at some primal command.

“Let her go, acoloyte.”

Slowly, by force of will, I manage to let her go and the whole scene rushes back into real time. Jessi elbows me hard - I’m too struck by His word to dodge. The air whooshes out of me as Rosco turns back to Jarnag.

“I know a gang leader when I see one.” Rosco says to a collective gasp of anger. “Whatd’ya want?”

The Huntlord frowns at the term, but just holds out the shovel. “Take up a real weapon. Join your wife. Join us.”

Rosco stares at the shovel. He’s smart cause he doesn’t ask what happens if he says no. He’s smart because he knows fighting is the way of things in this new world. He’s smart because he takes the shovel and kneels.

Jarnag runs a clawed thumb over Rosco’s forehead, smearing my blood there. I’m… not too sure I like that much but I don’t say a thing.

“Welcome to the Hunt, Rosco the Wild.”

[LeslieMS]

WAKING NIGHTMARES

Something was on fire. She could smell the smoke even before she opened her eyes. Once she opened them however, the sight that greeted her wasn’t much of an improvement. Her vision was clouded with thick smoke. Her eyes watered, and she gagged on what accompanied the smoke. On the air was the smell of burnt flesh, of blood, and the screams of the dying… Perhaps even the anguished calls of the dead, reaching beyond the realm they now found themselves in… Trying desperately to cling to the life they had been forced to abandon.

“Sarah?”

A figment of her imagination… was that Andrew? So faint and so fleeting, it could barely be heard amid the sounds of battle. All around her were the corpses of Mercenaries and Amnian soldiers alike, she stumbled as she moved away from the burning wagon, piled high with blackened corpses. A clash of steel to her left sent her jarring to the left. She looked over her shoulder to see a Flaming Fist soldier barely outmaneuver the spear aimed at him. She didn’t recognize him, but he screamed for her to run all the same.

And ran she did… the sound of the battle was deafening. Where was she? Everything was a blur. She found a stand of trees to hide beneath and looked around trying to figure out where she was or how she had gotten here. Nothing looked familiar. Everywhere there was blood. The gray stone, the green grass, Amnian tabard, Fist tabard… faces… women, children, men… all blood… so very much blood and death. She gagged.

She heaved only to be made painfully aware that she hadn’t eaten today… barely yesterday… barely at all since Andrew died.

There! Again on the wind… it had to be Andrew. She was sure of it.

But wait… Andrew is dead. There is no more fighting. They called a truce. This isn’t right…

“Sarah? Sarah! Where are you?!”

“Andrew? Andrew!”

She stepped in the direction of the voice, much the way a frightened rabbit might try to find a better shelter, knowing the wolf was far too close… Fighting was everywhere. Spells and swords, fire and smoke… blood and death…

In front of her there came a great roar… an Explosion?

No…

A giant dragon with blood red scales stood on top of the … building that was there… It was a building wasn’t it? What was happening?!

Fire roared all around her and she screamed… She screamed for Andrew, a sob nearly choking her as the beast took off, leaving her a maze of flames to now pick through. The heat was terrible, the sounds of battle were so loud… There were more screams now as the beast wrought terrible havoc on the battlefield.

Another choking sob as she called for her husband… The smoke was making it hard to breathe… she could barely see.

“Gods! Andrew where are you?!”

“I’m here!”

She couldn’t tell where the voice came from… there was so much noise. The flames were so loud. It hurt to breathe, every time she opened her mouth to speak… she could only cough. Yet he was out there, so distant, but she could hear him. She had to keep going.

Exhaustion drew her to her knees. Face to face with death. A man, headless… the head not two inches from her hand. She screamed… but it came out as little more than a choked whisper. The sound around her grew louder still…

“Sarah! Sarah! This way!”

He was closer!

She sobbed and choked as she crawled over the dead and dying, through the smoke and around the flames and debris. The heat was immense, every part of her ached from the effort she put forth to move at all. She was certain she had passed that corpse already… was she going in circles?

Suddenly she felt herself being lifted. A yelp of surprise was cut off as her face was drawn to a bloodied tabard, and the man who held her began to pick his way through the fire. The flames didn’t touch him, and yet she felt like she had been burned. She could barely breathe.

Her rescuer paused and she looked up… She nearly fainted.

“Andrew? But… how-”

Her words were cut off by a deep wracking cough that threatened to break her lungs. He shushed her in his gentle way. The hand that moved her hair from her face was covered in blood. She looked down to see a deep wound in her beloved husband’s side…

“You’re hurt! Andrew! You’re bleeding!”

She wriggled from his arms and attempted to look at the wound. She began to shred her skirt for bandages, coughing and sobbing. She couldn’t believe he was here… she had to help him. She had to!

“No, love. Sarah my dearest, don’t worry over it. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

“But the blood…”

“Is already everywhere. No sense in trying to stop it now.”

He wasn’t making any sense… She blinked at him in confusion. She looked around but couldn’t see anything but gray smoke and gray stones. Gray… there was no color in the world. Only smoke… the smell of death… and blood. Blood.

“But you will bleed to death!”

Her voice was little more than a choked whisper and fresh tears burned her eyes. Everything was burning… how could it be so hot. She hurt everywhere. His next words only served to confuse her further.

“It doesn’t matter, my love. My beautiful Sarah. You have to go. It isn’t safe for you here.”

“Andrew, no… I won’t! I won’t leave you to die. I can’t lose you again.”

He kissed her, she tasted the blood on his lips as he whispered her name. Again. The word echoed through her mind and she clung to him desperately.

“Sarah my love… You have to go. You can’t stay.”

“No!”

She was surprised how forceful her own voice was. He held her hands and tried to lead her away, into the gray… away from him. She knew he wasn’t coming with her… She jerked away from him and moved toward the heat. She sobbed in confusion and desperation.

“Sarah… my love… my sweet, beautiful wife… please. You cannot stay.”

“Then come with me!”

He held up his bloodied hands in a helpless gesture, the blood still oozed from his side, brilliant and bright against the gray. Behind her everything glowed orange. He shook his head slowly at her, the pain evident in his eyes… but not the pain from his wounds.

She ran to him, clung to him desperately, as though if she held him tight enough she could undo everything… fix it all somehow.

“Don’t ask me to leave you. Please…”

She was wracked by pain and he steadied her gently. He told her how much he loved her. Told her that he wished it didn’t have to be this way. She had to go, he had to stay… He was sorry…

An anguished scream ripped through her, but she slowly realized it was all in her mind. No sound came out… she was choking on thick smoke again… doubled over. She couldn’t see. His hand was on her shoulder, and she reached for it to steady herself…

Gently, however painful… the hand squeezed hers and another kiss was placed on the top of her head.

“My love… You have to wake up. Please. It will be alright, just open your eyes. Remember me in your prayers, my love. My love will always be with you. Both of you. Now, please, you have to wake up…”

She tried to see him but all she could see was blackness and gray smoke… the orange glow of flame was now so very distant. His voice was fading.

“Andrew! No. Let me stay with you! ANDREW!”

She choked. Everything hurt… so much.

“Sarah. You have to wake up.”

Wake up? She wasn’t asleep? She couldn’t be. He was there. She had to find him again. She wouldn’t leave him. Not again. But all that greeted her eyes was darkness, a heavy and thick curtain as his voice continued to plead with her to wake. She clawed at the darkness, but every movement hurt her so much…

“Sarah! Sarah, please wake up!”

That voice was familiar. It was familiar… but it wasn’t Andrew. She called out to her husband again.

“Sarah! Sarah!”

She heard more voices but she couldn’t make them out. People were calling for water and for a healer. So much commotion… so much pain. Her side burned, she hurt so bad… And still she clawed at the darkness.

Please let him be there. Please don’t take him from me. She continued to plead with the gods, but her only answer came from a familiar but yet to be placed voice.

“Sarah. Sarah, please wake up!”

Finally she broke through the darkness. She winced from the light coming from somewhere to her right. She smelled smoke and burnt flesh. Her eyes struggled to focus on the voice that kept pleading with her to wake, only now it was telling her to lay still. She didn’t have a choice.

“The healer is here, just lie still.”

There were other voices. A loud gruff man called for more water.

“Get that damned fire out before it spreads!”

“We need more buckets!”

The face of the man looking down on her came into focus. It was the neighbor. Why was he here? She blinked at the stars, and at Selune high over head. It was late. She struggled to think, but the pain was too much. She groaned.

Another voice urged her to be still… something was drawn to her lips. The priest told her to drink. Promised it would help ease the pain while the burns were dressed. This confused her. Burns? What was happening? She tried to ask, but nearly gagged as the draught slid down her throat.

“Swallow. It will help. Lie still a moment.”

She had no choice… pain overtook her as though a thousand hot needles were piercing her side. She thought she would pass out, but slowly pain was replaced by dull ache and exhaustion. Blackness encroached on her vision.

“What happened?”

“Shh… lie still and let the Blue Whinnies do their work. Let me dress these wounds and then we can get you to the temple. You don’t worry about anything else for now.”

She tried to speak again but only coughed. Slowly she fell back into blackness. In the dark she could hear Andrew’s voice again. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t see… Everything was dark… there was nothing. It was an empty black void. It was a void and there was nothing. Nothing but Andrew urging her not to give up.

“She needs you, my love… Don't give up yet.”

But before she could determine what he meant… everything went still and silent.
~~