It's morning and I awake two find to of my charges on their feet ready to plunge back into this deafening roar brought on by the War Horse himself who's seal hangs by threads in crimson tatters floating around lazily. It must fall on me to have miscalculated the severity of their wounds for I was certain that the legs were beyond repair twisted at the ankles and turning black. I'm grateful in point, and so are the mothers who I have let into the tent to see their sons. As they walk away I feel a pang deep in my chest I can assume odds like any underhanded merchant; when I see them next they'll be in wooden boxes adorned with weeds and rot. I can already hear the sobs as those mothers so happy now, so proud fall from the tower...the screams so vivid I can actually hear them...wait no my last charge is awake. I must go for now. Dear Lord, I pray for strength in motion, breath unlimited and clean bandages. Amen.
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The Angel's Trumpet
FantasyDelysia Jones The patron Saint of Rebellion. Of those who pray to her, those who awake in the night staring into the eyes of a dead king weighing on their chest, those who sail in blood and bury luxury within the earth. Pray to her when war wages...
