blood of the mind

A KNIGHT NAMED LEON

A field, 58 miles across and 79 wide fences mark out its edges. Its purpose? The growth of tulips blue red and striped imported long ago back in the colonisational age from the eastern-land-of-west. It's ironic isn't it the symbol of the Sarth is a flower grown in the soil of its ancestral enemy, but this beautiful moment of irony was ruined by a small human habit what's it called... ohh-yeah, wasn't it called Ж in the ancient language of Impirilish or  in daemonic or stríð in the reanimated tongue. In the tongue of the people involved it was simply named.

WAR

In the midst of battle, I ride, my shield finest Tav-wood my Armor half-decent steel. Reaching down with my lance I spear my horse-less foes from a high. but killing some common folk won't count on the battle tally so with the motivation of payment I spur my horse to enemy knights.

"hand me your name fellow horseman" I ask in a heroic fashion.

The brutish knight I have challenged looks away from the footman he has just skewered. "earl Garrick the skewer-er" the speaks in a hornish accent and wears the banner of Horna a magnificent squid being ridden by the sea mother here depicted as a wild woman in a blood-stained chiton.

I reply in proper fashion "sir Leon the"

"skewered" he shouts as he charges his horse toward me his spear out stretched

I stay in place despite my instinct telling me to move. At the last moment I veer out of the way and his spear impales the ground, and snaps in half.

"sea mother's semen" He turns and curses in anger, as he draws his mace to engage in knightly combat.

Our maces clash as we circle each other taking wild swings. Each trying to dent and disable the other's vitals, the head, the chest, the arms and the horse. Each blow came gut-wrenchingly close to me, with each swing of his mace my heart skipped multiple beats. within minutes my sheep-skin tunic clung to my sweaty skin and my hands felt awfully clammy in their gauntlets, I was glad for my visor as below it my face betrayed a look of pure unadulterated fear.

"it isn't so bad" I muttered to myself "at least I haven't "my positive outlook was ruined by a small warm patch developing in the dome of my crouch piece.

My deep embarrassment was furthered when a call resounded from across the field

"ФД"

It was the enemy leader he chanted it in a monotone voice as you must when speaking the god tongue, everyone on the battle field stopped and turned. The man screamed a girlish screech as any would if there in sides were rapidly liquefying, for as powerful as the good tongue is to speak it come at great cost. When the man had finished liquefying into the soil, there was a silence and then "RUN" the shout echoed across the field as the entire hoardorian army fled to the hills but even as that shout was uttered a cloud had gathered, to the cheers of the hornish, over the field and began to pour but the rain never reached the ground, as it solidified as a wave that easily reached 1,680 feet hovering at knee height. It stayed there for a few minutes as if it was giving the hoardorian army a head-start but with a ferocious noise it crashed forth over the army drowning many a man.

"move you four-legged shit pile" I screamed at my horse as it galloped away from the wave. It was closing in 48 meters,

36 meters, I veered diagonally towards the valleys edge,

23 meters, it was so close but so was the 45-degree slope of the valley.

17 meters, almost there.

5 meters, so close

It passes, an impenetrable wall of water in which many souls scream in pain. But my horse won't stop it keeps going full pelt strait into the out of the hills across the Valley-voyage. Past castlathedral jesh and strait into the web-wood of AkaTaG. At which point I fainted.