Before the Gate
We disembarked at Valiance Keep, forming a shoddy line of merchants, farmers, and artisans trying so hard to appear as soldiers. The officer at the desk knew, even before he asked our trades I'm sure, that almost none of us had held a blade before in our lives. Now and again he would speak to someone out of turn, usher them to the front of the line before sending them to the main keep, but no one complained. If we couldn't tell the battle-worn by their arms and their armour, we could see it in their eyes and their bearing. They knew their place in this fight, and it wasn't queueing up with those who had no business being in it.
"Your profession?" the officer asked as I stepped up to the table.
"Leatherworker," I answered, and tried not to shift under his gaze as he'd eyed the metal armour I'd polished, but clearly not made.
"Report to the civilian liaison," he said, and then called up the next.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved to be outfitting the army, rather than fighting for it. They gave me basic training, and I took to it well enough, but even a few shifts outside the walls turned my insides to water. The most I can say is that it didn't leak out, though the flamespitters that dived at my position had nothing to fear from my axe.
Every night I wondered what I was doing there, and why, and every night I would think of my family, and remember. I would swear to do better the next day, and by the time the call came for reinforcements at Fordragon Hold, I could at least take a swing at the beasts, though more swung past than landed.
I'm not sure what requirements they looked for to send us out, but I believe it amounted to "breathing and clothed." Those of us with less training pulled together pieces of mismatched armour, and were given tabards before being sent in support of the proper soldiers, who paid us little mind.
It seemed colder, on the hill above the gate, with it lurking so close, and the longer we waited, the quieter we all became. When we finally heard the call to march, I hadn't spoken a word in more than two days. Not until Fordragon took his place at the front of the line, and I called out with the others, supported by the hope that can only come from being led by a hero.
The feeling lasted until the enemies charge, and then it was lost under terror as I realised the flamespitters had been nothing.
I want to say I found my metal, proved myself to be my father's son and fought the good fight. I want to say that, but the truth is, I can say I was nothing more than I was: an extra body to distract the enemy from those who could truly fight. An extra body who ran.
It didn't save me. I went down with a vrykul's sword slipped in between the ill-fitting line between my breastplate and somewhat rusted metal belt. I remember falling to my knees, one hand uselessly pressed around the blade in my stomach, the other holding tight to my axe, because it had been my father's, and I could not bear to lose it.
And then the ghouls came.
They grunted and shrieked as they pulled at my armour, separating the pieces enough to expose the flesh beneath. And then their rotted teeth bit down, breaking through my skin with force alone, too dull to puncture or cut. When they began to gnaw against the bones, I found I was not yet to far gone to scream.
It drew the attention of the nearest creature, which knock away my helmet. Then it took my face in its deformed hands, bent toward me in a mockery of a lovers kiss, and then bit my lower lip, jerking back to tear away all the skin attached. I lost consciousness, finally and mercifully, as it began to slurp, and feeling hot blood pouring from my ruined face to seep under the cold metal of my father's armour.
"Your profession?" the officer asked as I stepped up to the table.
"Leatherworker," I answered, and tried not to shift under his gaze as he'd eyed the metal armour I'd polished, but clearly not made.
"Report to the civilian liaison," he said, and then called up the next.
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved to be outfitting the army, rather than fighting for it. They gave me basic training, and I took to it well enough, but even a few shifts outside the walls turned my insides to water. The most I can say is that it didn't leak out, though the flamespitters that dived at my position had nothing to fear from my axe.
Every night I wondered what I was doing there, and why, and every night I would think of my family, and remember. I would swear to do better the next day, and by the time the call came for reinforcements at Fordragon Hold, I could at least take a swing at the beasts, though more swung past than landed.
I'm not sure what requirements they looked for to send us out, but I believe it amounted to "breathing and clothed." Those of us with less training pulled together pieces of mismatched armour, and were given tabards before being sent in support of the proper soldiers, who paid us little mind.
It seemed colder, on the hill above the gate, with it lurking so close, and the longer we waited, the quieter we all became. When we finally heard the call to march, I hadn't spoken a word in more than two days. Not until Fordragon took his place at the front of the line, and I called out with the others, supported by the hope that can only come from being led by a hero.
The feeling lasted until the enemies charge, and then it was lost under terror as I realised the flamespitters had been nothing.
I want to say I found my metal, proved myself to be my father's son and fought the good fight. I want to say that, but the truth is, I can say I was nothing more than I was: an extra body to distract the enemy from those who could truly fight. An extra body who ran.
It didn't save me. I went down with a vrykul's sword slipped in between the ill-fitting line between my breastplate and somewhat rusted metal belt. I remember falling to my knees, one hand uselessly pressed around the blade in my stomach, the other holding tight to my axe, because it had been my father's, and I could not bear to lose it.
And then the ghouls came.
They grunted and shrieked as they pulled at my armour, separating the pieces enough to expose the flesh beneath. And then their rotted teeth bit down, breaking through my skin with force alone, too dull to puncture or cut. When they began to gnaw against the bones, I found I was not yet to far gone to scream.
It drew the attention of the nearest creature, which knock away my helmet. Then it took my face in its deformed hands, bent toward me in a mockery of a lovers kiss, and then bit my lower lip, jerking back to tear away all the skin attached. I lost consciousness, finally and mercifully, as it began to slurp, and feeling hot blood pouring from my ruined face to seep under the cold metal of my father's armour.