Night-Time

A Simple Start

The raid is over. That of course being the raid as administrated by what's left of the decaying Cailltine government. A raiding on an opposing force, Poteryal. From a bird's eye view, all that can be seen is a bloodied wasteland of lost hopes and dreams, filled with the stench of rotting flesh. This place, drowned not only in blood, but now in tears, was full of military operatives, both masculine and feminine. It is now instead filled with their corpses. For what they have sacrificed, one can only hope that 'tis a sacrifice that will not be missed in the memories of mankind.

This mission was issued by a government that has lost all hope. For this reason, they allowed a legion of mercenaries to do their dirty work for them. These grim men have been calling themselves the Wolves for as long as memories of them exist. Like everyone else, they try their best to make themselves useful in this dying world so as to make some sort of living. One can, of course, not hope to call such a tragic existence a living.

The leader of the Wolves, called Alban, treads slowly through the piles of rubble, in his own way bidding farewell to those lost. This is until a man appears standing behind him. Bryant, a black man dressed in a thick black garb and chainmail. "Sir, come take a look at something rather astonishing quickly," he tells in a coarse, deep voice. "I bid of you."

"Of course," replies Alban. "I will not take anything my best soldier says lightly. Lead on then." Immediately, the two men change course and head through the thick fumes, the smell piercing coldly through their tired lungs. The men finally come to a stop at a lone tent that doesn't seem to be broken down, yet there seems to not be any noticeable entrance to the tent, as if whatever is inside was originally intended to stay there for good. Bryant quickly slices the tent's front in two. Before them lies a babe. It seems peaceful. Yet, it must be fed, wish it to live.

"I couldn't have mistaken it. I'd expected 'twas a little one that I'd heard crying. Still, I needed to have someone at my side for if it was a trap." Alban looks hesitantly at the infant. "Bryant, what would you have us, a coarse group of men, do for a poor little one such as that?" Bryant looks at him suspiciously, "If it be that you're looking to hand the child over to the authorities, I can be almost certain that they'd do nothing but kill it."

Alban thinks for a moment, looking to the hard ground, particles floating past his eyes. "Very well," he says, looking back at Bryant, "you are to take full responsibility for the young one. If that be your purpose, then I ask that you raise him as one of us, teaching him the ways of war." He looks off into the distance, arms straight behind his back, "Teach the child to wield a sword, so that he may one day be a truly valuable asset to us." Alban looks Bryant directly into the eyes again after turning around and places his hand on his strong shoulder, "Perhaps even a friend."

"'Tis good," Bryant explains, "I feel you've made the right choice, Sir." "Killing him would go against the few morals I have, Bryant," Alban returns, turning to face the opposite side and starting to walk back, "We must take care of the child, because we are the only hope he has left." Agreeing, Bryant picks up the child in his own arms, checking to see if there is any other evidence regarding the child's birth. All that he can find is a small blanket labelled Sergei. "Sergei, are you, friend?" Bryant smiles. "I'm certain we'll get along just fine." The boy is carefully carried though the flaming rubble and over to the war trucks.

                                                                                  Years later

"Control your strikes, my boy," Bryant taunts as Sergei restlessly swings his mighty greatsword from all angles at his sparring partner. "That is some valuable advice," Sergei states, parrying Bryant's falchion and drawing his own sword to Bryant's eyes, "guess I should listen more often, eh?" "Good job, son!" Bryant yells, firmly impressed. "Friend, ever since I got tortured to death in sparring last time all I've been thinking about is at last beating you. Now that I've done it, I can gladly say that only one of my lungs has burst into flames, so I'm fine," Sergei pants.