"You're tossing out blame, drunk on this pain, crossing out the good years"
Nikolai Lantsov x fem!OC
[Storm and Siege- ]
Storm and Siege (Complete)
Ruin and Rising (Ongoing)
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There was once a little boy who grew up in a village up on the top of a little hill.
Up on the top of a hill there laid two villages. Sworn enemies under their nation's flag, by all accounts, they should have despised one another. They were told year after year, they were a threat to their way of life. They were told to see the villagers as cold and callous, the others as immoral and immodest.
But after peacefully coexisting with one another on the top of their little hill, they grew to peacefully coexist amongst each other. Over the many, many years, they lived in their own bubble, blissfully unaware of the war that raged on just beyond their villages on the top of their little hill.
They traded with one another, they broke bread together, they would throw greetings if they were to cross paths.
They created their own world order, ignorant of what was expected of them, until the rot set in.
The rot spread.
It spiked its way into the hearts of the villagers on top of the little hill. It nurtured their hatred and anger hardening their kind souls.
They shut their windows, stop their trade, and glared as they passed by.
Given half the chance, they would rid themselves of the other village on top of their little hill.
And they were given the chance.
When the countless foot soldiers, the prideful generals, and their weapons came, a village the opportunity to cripple their neighbors, they took it.
They stole the men of young and old from their (beds/homes) and brought them to the general. The man bowed deeply, gave them recognition for the work they had done and dismissed them with warm bellies.
The general took the men of young and old and slaughtered them without a second thought. As he looked down on bloodied bodies and decided it wasn't enough. He wanted to wipe the other village off of his little hill.
The little boy knew he was the one of the only survivors and he needed to save his village. The same village the general trained his weapons of mass destruction to the village filled with only women of young and old unaware of the shadow that roamed among the dead.
The little boy could feel his little heart beat, protesting against the clutches of death trying to grasp onto him. The sun was glittering in the distance, unaware of the atrocities being committed right underneath.
In his hallucination, he saw a woman. Her features are hidden in the shadows and the glare of the sun. She knelt down in a pool of his people's blood, unbothered by it.
The little boy could just make out the smeared red handprint on her cheek.
She reached out to the little boy to hold his bloody neck gently.
She frowned and the little boy could see three scars stretching tightly against blurry face before his sight began to go in and out.
As his little weak heart failed to beat, he reached out to her, touching whatever he could. Just seeking out the comfort of warmth in his final moments. "The village."
Her cool touch left him and she moved her hands over his chest.
The little boy felt his arms and legs gain back their warmth. His heart beat stronger in his chest as if the blood could freely move through it.
She calmly walked up to the village where hundreds were bound to meet their end.
The little boy could still see here out of the corner of his eye.
The woman covered in blood stood in front of the massive machines and men, blocking them from attacking the village.
The men yelled at her, the generals sneered at her and yet she didn't move.
They didn't give her a second warning before pulling the trigger.
Bombs, bullets, things the little boy hadn't seen before all shot out but froze in mid air.
The woman's hands were up, stopping anything from hitting the village.
The projectiles slowly changed directions back onto the soldiers and the village that now housed traitors.
There were screams of protest, shouts of prayers and pleads for mercy.
The sun finally settled beneath the horizon.
"You dug these graves," The woman's voice, calm and cold. "You can fall into them all the same."
And with those words, she dropped her hands and watched as the men dropped dead and the other village went up in smoke.
The little boy's eyes closed to all of the carnage, scared of the woman willing to destroy one village to save his. The woman who showed no remorse.
The woman left only a trail of disappearing bloody footsteps in her wake.
The little boy would go on to spread word of the woman. How her cruelty saved him. How her ruthlessness saved his village. How she was utterly without mercy to those she felt were unfit.
Long live the Okrovavlennyi Sankta, the Bloodied Saint, patron of the ruthless and those without mercy. May she watch over the cruel and those with the strength to do what others cannot.
