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 Post subject: Mourningwoods
 Post Posted: Wed Jan 17, 2007 10:38 am 
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Sutra lay as comfortably as possible in the thorn bush. Even wincing caused a cascade of glorious pain. Waves of pulsating sensations racked his body.

Maybe it was the broken ribs on his left side, the landing portion that absorbed the unscripted tumble down the decent gap in the earth.

He breathed in quiet gasps. Maybe if he didn't breath too much, the pain could be tricked into a lulled stupor. With every inhaled grunt, he was reminded of his miscalculation.

The caravan had been ambushed. Not by men seeking to pillage a majestic looking caravan, but by a band of lithe goblins. Hundreds of them. He had seen goblin raids and tribal wars between the different shades of them as well, but nothing like this. This legion was different, they bore a mark. All the same, etched into their leathery skin, over their sternum. Many of them scabbed over or infected, others freshly carved.

An eye and a tear, he thought, from what he could make out on the blurs of assailing marauders. He made a decent stand, teleported only once. His bow had been broken about 10 minutes into the fight. A short sword could only get him so far.

He held his breath and listened. An occasional squeal of a dying goblin, a low moan from a fading man. The carnage was undoubtedly sinister. He hadn't seen this much blood shed since the battle on the fields of Midnight Sun.

Slowly, he realized he could feel every push of blood coursing through his veins. With each heartbeat, he could feel his left side pulsate and stop, followed by another heartbeat, his right side mirroring in action. He had never really noticed that. Not even in meditation.

He stared up into the gray skies above. No guiding stars this time, only the cloudy remnants of his short breaths.

Snow, this time of year? Small flakes of ice began to sprinkle the land. Like pin pricks on his skin, he wondered about what could have been.

Sleep. Tired...so tired.

Sleep.

[no you don't]

Sutra's consciousness halted at the music box voice.

[try again]

"What?" grunted the unamused fallen monarch.

[again]

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

"Your majesty..."

His spirit slammed into a physical barrier. He had felt weightless only seconds ago, and now, corporal restraints contained him. The thunderous drumming of his fresh headache was deafening.

Squinting, Sutra slowly peered ahead.

The sound of neighing horses and barked commands slowly reached his mind. A young man stood before him as he seemed to wait patiently.

"The caravan, it's ready."

Looking around, Sutra attempted to absorb as much scenery as possible. The ground was clear of snow, muddy trenches dug into the ground where carriage wheels ventured.

"Has the snow melted?" the baffled dark one asked as he checked himself. Brushing his long coat off, not out of vanity, but ensuring he was indeed not dreaming.

"Snow your majesty?" replied a bemused passerby.

"The weather scholars do call for snow, but not until tomorrow."

"Ah, yes...of course."

"The caravan is ready for inspection"

Sutra stood against the chilled breeze. He pressed a trembling hand against his left side. No pain. Odd.

"Form three smaller traveling parties, none taking the main roads. I..." images of burning wreckages, once a royal caravan flashed in his mind, "I want them to get to know the lay of the land."

"Yes sir."

"And send messages to each province. To the the baronies and duchy, to make their way down to the Shire of Mourningwood with great care and diligence."

"And what of the reports of the goblin resurgance?" Asked the approaching veteran war captain.

"As you would prepare any official visit to a province friend, with great care and caution."

With instructions given, the men were off in their directions, fulfilling the grand inquisitors requests.

Sutra stood in the main square once more. He paced towards the same stone bench he had rested upon that very summer as he watched the locals enjoy the warm weather.

The overcast grey sky stood frozen. An occasional crows squawk echoed in the square.

Reaching into his pocket, he produced the last missive to come from the shire known as Mourningwood.

"Dark times...evil gods....altars....last stand."

He knew what was left undone had to be completely crushed before his reign could successfully proceed.

Messages had been sent across the lands, to each company and household requesting their assistance in strengthening their homelands.

Talks of the undead walking to the southeast, and of the closing of the borders to the kingdom in the southwest had become the sign of the times.

Dark times indeed.

S
[con't]

_________________
The general who advances without seeking fame and retreats without fearing disgrace, whose only thought is to protect his country and do service for his sovereign, is the jewel of his kingdom. -Sun Wu


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