Worth

Rowan and Finch

The bellowing thunder in the distance grew louder by the second as Rowan and his huntsmen trudged through the muk that was once familiar hunting grounds. The wind tore through the faces and arms of every hunter in the depth of the hills like small knives carving into their skin. Not only was the chilling droplets on their flesh something they were getting used to, but the blinding falling water was making their vision blurred and distorted as well. Painful screams of men and women was ripping into their ears with a forceful vengeance, it was taking everything he had in him not to tell his fleet to turn around and go home. This wasnt supposed to happen, not now. These wars were supposed to stay in the past with the stories his parents had told him, the peace was to be kept. This was not the way they should have handled things, but the small attack on their western patrol over their rightful kill was the last straw in the alliance they had with the Field people.

Rowan signaled to the small group of men and women to slow their pace as they came up on the last hill. His hand rose and fell slowly to his side, leading them to approach much more carefully. He stammered up the wet hill with careful footing with his machete in hand, one that had been passed down from his father. He kept it on him at all times, but it felt heavier now than usual. Heavier, not because of its weight, but because he knew that he was probably going to have to use it on another human being tonight.

The clinging of weaponry, along with the shouting and pleading words of fellow humans was enough to leave a scar on anyone's heart. Looking over the hill, Rowans adrenaline grew more ready to attack, and also to protect. His eyes finally peered over the ridge and saw exactly what he had imagined in his head, horror. He saw his tribe at arms with the Fieldsmen, bodies caking the earth and being washed away in the cool waves of precipitation. The earth drowned in red, a mixture of blood and dirt that made its own hue of crimson that mixed with the sins of each other. People destroying others was a sight that he already hoped others will not have to see, and one he was hoping someday he will forget.

He turned back towards his men, their stances matched his in formation; ready at any moment to react to the next signal their leader threw at them. He ran his eyes over every other face he could see of the small posse that was behind him. They all nodded as his face met theirs, one by one and their grips holding on to their spears, daggers, swords, and bows. It was time to defend themselves, and this fight will be over shortly if they run toward it with their will. He finally got to the last pair of eyes he wanted to see, and nodded. The men charged forward silently over the hill, then erupting in cries of war once upon the flat earth. Rowan followed and came face to face with several others along the way. Leaving behind Finch, his right hand man.

Finch was a younger man, wearing none other than his fathers studded leather sheath that carried the family dagger. He was barely out of his apprenticeship as a huntsmen, and right now he was mortified of what he was about to do. Frozen in place upon this hill, he knew he was about to be labeled as a coward, but would they notice his absence? It was his duty to protect their tribe, to keep the mothers and children safe and the other hunters protected, but was the answer slaughtering this small tribe of Fielders the correct way of doing so? Only the Spirits can answer that, but his doubts rang true between his ears. It was decided then, stay whole and stay back, right?

Without warning, a screech rang out far away and to eastern side of the young warrior. Turning his head toward the sound and among the brambles his breath began to speed up. What could possibly be making that sound right now amongst all this warfare? An undiscovered beast? No, that couldn't be it, the noise sounded as if it was coming from a much smaller creature. The noise it made sounded much more...human. Finch shook his head a bit, cowardice was not a good look on him so perhaps following his crew would be the better choice.

He grasped at the dagger once more. Flipping it from one hand to another. All his other friends and fellow Foresters had already sprung ahead of him, and he somehow melted into the background. Was he ready for the fighting among himself? He should have just stayed home, he was nothing but a waste of space at this point. Although, they could probably use his skills right now to have his clans back.