Salvation || The Witcher

1. Run

Windermere is a quaint village on the edge of a forest. The trees stand tall and rigid on guard. Despite the chilling forest, children are running, skipping, and playing around the village. The chatter of wives doing their washing together in the river snakes its way through the village. Above the children can be heard the yells of men going about their day working for their families. A normal day.

The close-knit community is filled with tiny homes made from the trees that protect us and the straw roofs sheltering us from the unpredictable weather of the highlands. Freshly baked goods and natural coloured fabrics are wafting in the wind. One smells good, and the other looks great. Barks of dogs echo through the village as they command the cattle and sheep to move to a new area to graze.

If only it could stay that way. As I sit on the rickety stair in front of my home, I read 'The Royal Fable of Mystical Creatures'. I've been reading this book for a while now. Coming across creatures like Dragons, Griffins, Centaurs, and many others. However harpies Suddenly dark, heavy clouds came rolling over the hill, scaring away the sun and bringing in an icy chill. Vaper of clouds flows out of our mouths. The dramatic change of season and a change that the village may never recover from.

The rain started flooding down, pounding against my skin like knives—the chill of the howling wind sliced through me like I was not even there. The mud of the battered earth oozes between my toes as I flee from the chaos that has begun with the menacing pounding of thunder and the haunting crackle of lightning playing in the background.

All I can think is, RUN! Run for my life. My freedom. My family. My future. I am running from the bloodshed that is my village — running from where my loved ones are hiding. I can hear the screams of women and children getting slaughtered. The war cries of men trying to save the people left in the village and get revenge for those we've lost. The keyword is 'trying'. My village aren't fighters; we're farmers. I can practically hear the tears of flesh. The breaking of bones as freakishly long, razor-sharp talons take another victim—the drops of blood adding to the ever-growing pool.

The Harpies are a vulgar, carnivorous group of bird-like people. They feel eudaimonia as they roam to massacre villages out of sport and obtain food. Swooping in with their eight-foot wingspan, grabbing and slicing anything that moves. They were a terror to behold and almost impossible to escape.

The overpowering, deathly, metallic aroma of the blood invades my senses. My fight or flight ignited as I stumble through the creaking trees of the forest, with fear pulsing through my veins.

The screech of annoyance echoed, bouncing off the trees once they discovered that I had escaped. They must have seen my footprints. 

Roots of trees reaching up and grabbing at me, slowing me down. Panic swims in my mind disorientating me, causing a black swirl to obstruct my vision, sending me to what may be an eternal sleep.

The last thing that echos through my head is the slicing of mental through flesh and bone, accompanied by the final screech of a Harpie.