Puddles

Prologue

                                                                     Prologue

The shadows receeded as a black cloaked figure strode over to the table. Head bowed, he bent to one knee and waited. 

A voice shattered the silence startlingly, as if someone had taken a sword to it. He spoke without the common growl of a Westmarkian, but with the distinct firmness of one who did not require a low voice to hold another's attention. "Are you the only one tonight?" Now he turned around slowly, eyeing the bowed man with veiled disappointment. Several dim lanterns cast a warm glow on the upright man's aging features. He was not old, but decades of battles had worn through a once young face, permanently scarring it. 

"Yes, Osan. Some believe we have been spotted, and the others are covering up their tracks; their masters are beginning to question why they work such small hours. We cannot all risk meeting here together." 

"But did we not create this council knowing such things might happen? Have we not been fully aware of the danger and risk we took upon ourselves? We founded this council on sacrifices, not convenience." His voice echoed around the large hall, creating an eerie sound that might have spooked anyone else. 

Finally the bent man stood up to his full hight, which didnt amount to much. Surprisingly neat chestnut hair stood up on his large head, complimenting his dark green eyes. Tough brown skin covered his bare arms and likewise scratched face. Equally rough hands gripped a long, thin machette, which reflected the small light with a hint of crimson. He brought up the weapon and stared at it almost hatefully. "Osan, I had to kill three men just to get in here," he answered quietly.

Osan watched the sword, the veil on his stony face falling to reveal sheer discouragement. But his hard face regained its expressionlessness in a matter of seconds. He turned away once more to stare at the tattered flag hanging precariously from a small nail. "We're losing this war, Veraun. In fact," he raised his voice harshly, "there isn't even a war anymore. We lost the war decades ago, and now Fate chooses to let us languish in oppressed silence until our scattered people die out. We are the slaves of the lowest peasants in all Westmark! What can we even hope for? Is there anything to hope for?" He stood rigidly with his back turned, awaiting an impossible answer. 

"But that's what we're here for, Osan. We have to make our own hope." Footsteps started pattering quietly down the hallway, and the stubborn Runnin leader was left to the dying lamplight and unfeeling stony walls.

Osan Woodgrey swung slowly around to follow his companion down the maze of halls, and he gathered up his shattered courage as he whispered resolutely, "We will."