One sun. Two suns. Three suns. Gore.
The Balloon Settlement had the Wind Witch's followers strongly stated on the east but not so much the west side. No doubt they were trying to cut it off completely and make it a stronghold. He started with the west where the raiders came from. The Bark Criers would no doubt do the same, but being a single person, he could mobilize faster. Strike meaner. Kill more.
They weren't expecting a retaliation so soon.
With the Fury and Destruction of the Fury and her father the Destroyer deities, the slaughter began. At first there were runts. Their vestigial feathers hadn't even molded more than a few times. Their crying squawks and squawking cries ring true and quick. He does have mercy after all. A longsword here, a polearm there, a small fortune of weapons he began to collect. One head. Two. Three. Four. Five. The heads of them stuck on a pike which he fitted to his armor. Their heads acting his banner.
By the eve of the first night, all of the western flank of the Balloon Settlement was free if them. That wasn't enough for him.
He made modest camp. A passing Bark Crier brigade passed. Information was swapped. So were underhanded remarks of Mountain Brutes and immanent Woodsin. Wouldn't be the first time.
He learned surveyed till the following eve then he struck. Wind Witch's followers gathered rally in a gorge. This was their fatal mistake. A stomp. A crush. Rolling. Their exit was sealed only the sky lead free. In their fright, they attempted to fly. Generations ago perhaps. Their most ancient ones probably still could fly.
Above where he stood he launched the piked heads they flew true to their small target: the ground.
Just then lightning flashed as if the Destroyer gave approval -- or perhaps Old Thunder, granting his blessing to cleanse his woods.
These were older ones from their homeland in the Always Winter mountains -- he would take the fight there too if he must. The Twelveswood would not give this patch of land away. Not tonight.
Arrows began flying past his head and he retreated out of sight. Fires of torches soon filled the ridge. Bark Criers. Dozens of them. Archers backed by pikemen. Not a single beastman stood left.
He returns home in time to see his son carrying the Woodland Highlander, his own face splattered with beast blood. She lay peacefully in his arms. A smile crosses his face as thuds from his armor are heard from removing them piece by blooded piece. His undershirt and pants were patched brown with dried blood and stunk of blood, mostly their blood, and sweat. Seeing his son, one who was always the meekly mannered and only fought back when really pushed -- something was different. Had she tempered his heart to discover himself when they take off on their journey?
The son's journey is something he believes should happen. He imagines there has been something deep in him calling him to this. Something missing from his life other than his sister and da.
The Balloon Settlement had the Wind Witch's followers strongly stated on the east but not so much the west side. No doubt they were trying to cut it off completely and make it a stronghold. He started with the west where the raiders came from. The Bark Criers would no doubt do the same, but being a single person, he could mobilize faster. Strike meaner. Kill more.
They weren't expecting a retaliation so soon.
With the Fury and Destruction of the Fury and her father the Destroyer deities, the slaughter began. At first there were runts. Their vestigial feathers hadn't even molded more than a few times. Their crying squawks and squawking cries ring true and quick. He does have mercy after all. A longsword here, a polearm there, a small fortune of weapons he began to collect. One head. Two. Three. Four. Five. The heads of them stuck on a pike which he fitted to his armor. Their heads acting his banner.
By the eve of the first night, all of the western flank of the Balloon Settlement was free if them. That wasn't enough for him.
He made modest camp. A passing Bark Crier brigade passed. Information was swapped. So were underhanded remarks of Mountain Brutes and immanent Woodsin. Wouldn't be the first time.
He learned surveyed till the following eve then he struck. Wind Witch's followers gathered rally in a gorge. This was their fatal mistake. A stomp. A crush. Rolling. Their exit was sealed only the sky lead free. In their fright, they attempted to fly. Generations ago perhaps. Their most ancient ones probably still could fly.
Above where he stood he launched the piked heads they flew true to their small target: the ground.
Just then lightning flashed as if the Destroyer gave approval -- or perhaps Old Thunder, granting his blessing to cleanse his woods.
These were older ones from their homeland in the Always Winter mountains -- he would take the fight there too if he must. The Twelveswood would not give this patch of land away. Not tonight.
Arrows began flying past his head and he retreated out of sight. Fires of torches soon filled the ridge. Bark Criers. Dozens of them. Archers backed by pikemen. Not a single beastman stood left.
He returns home in time to see his son carrying the Woodland Highlander, his own face splattered with beast blood. She lay peacefully in his arms. A smile crosses his face as thuds from his armor are heard from removing them piece by blooded piece. His undershirt and pants were patched brown with dried blood and stunk of blood, mostly their blood, and sweat. Seeing his son, one who was always the meekly mannered and only fought back when really pushed -- something was different. Had she tempered his heart to discover himself when they take off on their journey?
The son's journey is something he believes should happen. He imagines there has been something deep in him calling him to this. Something missing from his life other than his sister and da.
