Llenethyl is alone, his city conquered by "Mongrels" and "Barbarians". He has to learn to hide, and fight a silent battle in a city he adored, all the while succumbing to the sinister charms of his new townsmen. Llenethyl needs to act, and act fast before he becomes one of them.
The tension was thick on either side of the great walls, fearful men lined it’s great teeth and blood-thirsty mongrels stood at it’s feet, growling murderously up at the castle’s defenders.
Among the quivering crowds of men stood a boy; a boy who had seen far less summers than the others (Fifty in total) and his introverted town still regarded him as the “Youngest brother” even though he was an only child, his face contained all the features of a “man”; the pencil dotted chin, the broad shoulders, the deep yet gentle voice, though his years were known well amongst his townsmen and he couldn’t escape the patronising banter directed at him. He rubbed his thumb against the metal hilt of the elegant sword placed clumsily in his hand, following the long line pulsing along the sword like a perfectly straight vein. He’d never learned to fence, he deemed it an unnecessary skill for a blacksmith and now he was wishing he hadn’t as the blade sat clumsily in his hands; he doubted he could do any damage to anything with such little skill.
A mongrel stood forward, a primitive crossbow was extended from his hand and he took casual aim at the crowd of men. They shivered as water soaked through the mesh of their chainmail. The crowd in front of the boy parted and before he could raise an eyebrow he had been thrown from the heights of the castle walls, rushing to meet the soaked cobbles of the street below.
His will was shattered as he hit the unwelcoming stones of the path below him and he’d decided he was ready to die the moment he’d took position on the porcelain coloured walls, huddled next to the terrified forms of people around him, being beaten down by heavy drops of water from above. His body was intending to live however, stubbornly it pumped blood around his body, it seemed to mould around the arrowhead like a fungus, rejecting it like bacteria or weak virus. Within seconds his body had pushed it out completely; with a sinister blue liquid adorning the arrowhead it slithered down from his shoulder and rested in disappointment on the floor by the boy.
He prized open his eyes, the light of fire danced across the sky and cries of joy rung out from the barren streets: Hadn’t it been daylight when he’d fell? Or at least it was a cloudy excuse for daylight. He sat up in elation, voices of joy and of drunken merriment filled the usually quiet streets of Harringvale, and they hadn’t seen a bonfire for almost fifteen summers. All around him were the joyous cries of his comrades, though he couldn’t hear many women - Perhaps they had all retreated to their bedsides to show their brave soldier a good time?
He shook his head slowly from side to side, placing a hand on the back of his skull, grimacing as his sticky, dried blood attempted to claim his hand. He rolled his shoulder, the wound still felt sore but he was certain he’d gotten away lucky; the crossbow bolt rolled innocently with the wind on the floor next to him, attempting to escape it’s victim and take solace in the forgotten depths of the gutter. He dismissed the bolt and got to his feet.