The Mournful Days

A Silenced Town

The streets were quiet.  The air was thin; the wind, tame.  Not a flash of life to be spotted in the alleyways of Achreron.  Rows and rows of houses and shops beaten with age, all of which appeared to be empty.  Not a "hoot" of an owl, nor a harmonic tune performed by the crickets of the night.  Quiet.  Empty.  Not like it's always been.  Achreron was always alive.

Not a day goes by in this unforsaken town when the villagers are quiet and nestled in their beds at dusk and up at dawn.  Streets are paraded with festivals and celebrations for various events.  The townsfolk are joyous in their festive garments, all of which are sorted by reason.  Loved ones pulling crackers and brandishing wands and staves.  Cries, not of pain, but of joy are released in the populace.  The town is often surrounded by an aura of happiness and joy that always welcomes new travelers from distant lands.

But on this night, there was no cry of joy, nor generous appraisal to a lonesome man.  No festival or parade set off in the streets.  Not even the slightest giggle being released could be heard.  How could such a lively town become so dead in the night.  The aura was gone, replaced by a feeling of fear and grief.

Off in the distance, the repetitive pattern of hooves draw closer to the center square.  Massive steeds hauling crates, large enough to hold a man, could be seen approaching the church.  Their riders brood, pungent of hatred.  The crates scraped the cobblestone streets as they made their way into the graveyards.

Deep within the graveyard, a small group of hooded figures stood; their shovels in hand.  At last, the white noise broke.

"Come on there.  We 'aven't got all day."
"You'd do well not to rush me Marvelo," groveled one of the riders.

Marvelo was struck at the warning.  "Don't you dare threaten me, Armand.  I, for one, will no' deal wit' this behavior.  I own 'his church, an' for that rea-"

His breath left him.  His chest felt cold and numb.  He gazed down as he watched a blade leave his body.  The man shuddered as he slumped to the dirt beneath.

"As I recall," the hooded man began.  "I am the captain of the Saresient Army.  Far more superior than a cleric."

Quivering with fear, another man with a spade removed his hood to speak.

"What of h-his b-body s-s-sir?"  He trembled as he spoke.

"In the lot with the rest."  The captain peered at the bewilderment shared amongst the rest.  "That means you'll have to dig a deeper hole.  Now hurry along now.  You've got till dawn."

He gestured to the crates and with a parting glare, he rode off deep into the town.