Music for reading-
Spirit, how many are my foes?
How many more men, more women, must I cut?
How many more must I deliver before my trial is over?
A personalised verse of the Holy Faith.How many more men, more women, must I cut?
How many more must I deliver before my trial is over?
Remembrance of tumultuous terrors transpiring in his wake oft called for guidance from a higher power. Mayhaps the Spirit was simply absent from the walds of Opper Calemberg. Such would have certainly explained why an affront to Ailorkind was deemed necessary. Why, though praise was given from higher rank, many of its perpetrators left the order. Why many more under the regiment never woke after.
Screams, shouts, shrieks echoed about the village. One's home village. Figures clad in dirt-hampered cloaks and tricorne hats closed in from alley to square. Families of four, five, six were held up at the end of crossbow, leashed up in rope, dragged out of their homes. Tears and wails decorated a canvas painted in rust. The half who resisted; who dug up their arms or ran; met their ends in sanctified hails of bolts. In effect, a far swifter fate than the captured half.
You, my Faith, as an aegis before me,
And my blades, my bolts, as your works of will.
The will and direction of Your Imperial Crown,
The will and direction of men I have never met,
The famed members of Darkwald are called upon when situations take a turn for the worst. The men at arms; the sergeants of lower rank; take the brunt of the work, acting in capacity to ensure such matters fail to arise.
Hence, all of them were Alais.
Voices lashed out, spewed curses, cried in unimaginable agony - in grief for their loved ones sharing the same outcome. None of them were silenced by the crackling, roaring cinders enveloping their owners. Those bearing the tricorne hats watched. They listened as the cacophony of demise continued past the time of its end. Such sounds resounded amongst pine trees and tall grass - competing only with snapping furor, tinted amber and stained crimson.
Odd. One could compare the scent dispersed to that of charred pork.
And yet, the knights could not weep, could not speak, could not relinquish a single tear. Their code would not permit it. For no quarter should be given to the aberrant -
Though perhaps only half of them were.
We hunt, we hunger, we sleep, and we die,
All in your name, your faith for a destiny yet told.
So many delivered by you, by me, by pyre or by steel.
So many knowing of your light, yet so many torched in its name.
One stood atop a mountain of their charred corpses. One stood alone while the grease-lined ashes began to drift off amongst shallow wind brought alongside an incoming dawn. One stood and stared into the distance with eyes devoid of any hope for the future - emptied from faith in the world and its many denizens.
One stands alone - a mere man at arms of his order.
Now, one stands there again. His people slaughtered en masse - genocide in his homeland.
Spirit, I ask yet again,
When will my deliverance come?
When will your blessing come for my toil to conclude?
Last edited:
