The Son of May
That look of twisted horror imprinted itself for the first time accross the young animal's features. eyes so innocent clouded themselves to provide mercy from witnessing the change of life about him...
"What have I done?" the words leaked out through his teeth and dripped off his lips. "What have I done? Tell me..." His voice traied off only to snap back in a roar fit for his mother, ".... WHAT IS THIS? WHAT IS THIS BLOOD OF MY HANDS?!"
He curled his lips back in a snarl towards the mounted suits of armor. He almost looked comical from the view of down-cast eyes. His alkward limbs sprawled out over the twitching body before him and his muscels bulged and quivered in shock. Scarlet streaks painted his skin and branded themselves in, becomming a part of him. However odd the Son of May, no soilder dared mannage a smirk.
A single human dismounted and strode over to the lad in swift, ground eating strides. He moved as if the distance had never been. In one motion, his hands swept the helmit from it's perch atop his crown and his knees folded and shifted beneath him as he knelt to see eye-to-eye. He sat his helmit in the scarlet earth beneath his knee and leaned against it, making it appear to be the only thing holding him up. He brought his face close to the boy's.
"Your father was never meant to hold a sword." His tone of voice was also suitable for talking about the weather. "Dispite that, he is dead and you are alive, need I tell you why that is? My knights and I were not the ones who took your home. We were sent by your mother in hopes we would be the first to arrive. Our mission is to collect you and protect you until the might of our enemy has failed them."
In the blink of an eye, he was upright and balanced on his toes with his helmit cocked under his arm. For all the energy he portrayed in rising, he may as well be dancing to the rythem of some unknown tune. The boy's eyes snapped up from the stilled face of his father. They met the cool, composed stare of the general; crystal blue crashing against walls of deep brown.
"My.... mother?" The word sounded foreign to his toung. "What say you of my.. mother? I have no mother! None worth loving." For all his pain, the boy did not look away nor flintch when the general drew his sword and held the tip against the soft flesh of his throat.
"A boy should learn to hold his toung when speaking matters of which he knows not," That relaxed, lazy voice suddenly became as soft and dull as the very blade he clentched in his hand. "Your mother is the greatest worrior this world has ever known. For countless years in this war she has led our troops to victory. She has never been defeated. She moves about the blood stained earth as if God himself pre-ordains her path. She loved your father very much, that love only being matched by the love of her only son. She gave her life for you and her husband. Pledging her furute to be wasted as a dog of war so that the love of her life would be able to live here, sheltered and protected. Have a little respect, boy." His voice slithered around the word "boy", spitting it out as if it were a bad peice of meat. He withdrew his steel and returned it to it's sheth at his hip. In the same motion, he spun on his heel to face his horse. As he strode back to his trusted steed, he spat over his shoulder to the boy who no longer trembled on the ground:
"Gather what you can carry and mount, we ride in no more than an hour."
And with that, a legend began.
"What have I done?" the words leaked out through his teeth and dripped off his lips. "What have I done? Tell me..." His voice traied off only to snap back in a roar fit for his mother, ".... WHAT IS THIS? WHAT IS THIS BLOOD OF MY HANDS?!"
He curled his lips back in a snarl towards the mounted suits of armor. He almost looked comical from the view of down-cast eyes. His alkward limbs sprawled out over the twitching body before him and his muscels bulged and quivered in shock. Scarlet streaks painted his skin and branded themselves in, becomming a part of him. However odd the Son of May, no soilder dared mannage a smirk.
A single human dismounted and strode over to the lad in swift, ground eating strides. He moved as if the distance had never been. In one motion, his hands swept the helmit from it's perch atop his crown and his knees folded and shifted beneath him as he knelt to see eye-to-eye. He sat his helmit in the scarlet earth beneath his knee and leaned against it, making it appear to be the only thing holding him up. He brought his face close to the boy's.
"Your father was never meant to hold a sword." His tone of voice was also suitable for talking about the weather. "Dispite that, he is dead and you are alive, need I tell you why that is? My knights and I were not the ones who took your home. We were sent by your mother in hopes we would be the first to arrive. Our mission is to collect you and protect you until the might of our enemy has failed them."
In the blink of an eye, he was upright and balanced on his toes with his helmit cocked under his arm. For all the energy he portrayed in rising, he may as well be dancing to the rythem of some unknown tune. The boy's eyes snapped up from the stilled face of his father. They met the cool, composed stare of the general; crystal blue crashing against walls of deep brown.
"My.... mother?" The word sounded foreign to his toung. "What say you of my.. mother? I have no mother! None worth loving." For all his pain, the boy did not look away nor flintch when the general drew his sword and held the tip against the soft flesh of his throat.
"A boy should learn to hold his toung when speaking matters of which he knows not," That relaxed, lazy voice suddenly became as soft and dull as the very blade he clentched in his hand. "Your mother is the greatest worrior this world has ever known. For countless years in this war she has led our troops to victory. She has never been defeated. She moves about the blood stained earth as if God himself pre-ordains her path. She loved your father very much, that love only being matched by the love of her only son. She gave her life for you and her husband. Pledging her furute to be wasted as a dog of war so that the love of her life would be able to live here, sheltered and protected. Have a little respect, boy." His voice slithered around the word "boy", spitting it out as if it were a bad peice of meat. He withdrew his steel and returned it to it's sheth at his hip. In the same motion, he spun on his heel to face his horse. As he strode back to his trusted steed, he spat over his shoulder to the boy who no longer trembled on the ground:
"Gather what you can carry and mount, we ride in no more than an hour."
And with that, a legend began.