𝔻𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥: 𝕆𝕗 𝕄𝕚𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕕𝕤, 𝕄𝕖𝕟 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕄𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝔾𝕠𝕕𝕤

Chapter One: Wyrin

Chapter One:

WYRIN

  He could hear the beckoning calls of Ousin's heralds, perched upon the withered treetops. They donned a black in their feathery cloaks that could only sing of death, raising a cry as wide and wretched as their wasted kingdom. It was a mockery, feasting on fallen flesh. Wyrin, half-buried in the earth, shooshed a herald from his shoulder before it could peck his eyes out.

The raven squawked in protest as its wings brought it into the air and away from the trench. With blood running in his veins and breath on his tongue, he was yet to die. Alone in his trench, he waited, another corpse in a pool of dead soldiers. He was not one to pray but alas he did: for mercy.

Suddenly the murder riled into startle, taking to the skies where their master had awaited them. It was from above, three pairs of boots slid down the steep of the trench. All armed to the teeth with steel that arched into the shape of a crescent. Their backs donned with the snapping chimes of woven steel, branded in the image of a manticore.

Shuffling amongst the carcasses, Wyrin felt something latched onto his sleeve before it pried him from the earthy grasp. The warmth of the sun had never felt more chilling. "Strike me down," Wyrin said. The vicious strength was from none other than the soldier that stood before him. Smiling under fleece of flowing black hair, he took his scimitar into his hands and drew steel, the blade curved to his throat.

"Speak your last... Root." the soldier rasped, shaving the steel across the stubble of Wryin's chin. When he finally spoke, the heat from the steel stung beneath the sunlight but not a word had left his tongue. For he knew when he was done, they would deal him the same fate.

"Speak!" demanded his executioner, reeling back his scimitar.

"Commander Gebri!" cried a messenger with a scarred face and donning the same manticore on his helmet. Peaking over the mouth of the trench, he continued, "The trenches have been cleared, sir." but the face of the commander did not entail satisfaction. "Well done troops," Gebri roared his praise. "We shall return immediately..." shifting his gaze to Wyrin.

"Seize him."

Those were the last words spoken in that trench before he was bound and climbing out onto the surface. "You're a lucky one," Gebri had told him when they set foot on grass. "Another root and your head would fly clean off." leashing him towards a saddled stallion. "What will become of me?" Wyrin heard himself utter. "You'll make like the rest of them and get a move on," the commander replied snarkily, shoving him forward. Why did he spare me? He wondered, struggling to free himself of his bonds.

The heralds cackled in laughter when they saw him. They mock me, even in defeat... Wyrin noted as he felt a hard yank from his binds. "Make haste, lest you want to be dragged by our horses!" he heard one of the mounted soldiers jape. Wyrin did not listen, fixated only at the taunting ravens. What else do you have left for me? Or does your master simply desire to scorn me? He questioned the birds, pacing a bit quicker.

It was a wasteland above the trenches and reeked of one as well. Veins from the skirmish bled a sickly crimson that dyed the grass red. Swords and shields and spears marked the graves of the fallen, their armour: nothing more than steel caskets. Running up to the stallion, Wyrin asked, "Where are you taking me?"

"Shut up! Know your place, you root scum!" ordered the soldier that rode beside them. "At ease," Gebri told them both. "We will be arriving there soon."

And shortly after, their path was met by a spruce fence laced in defences at every corner. Its staked gates were adorned with their sigil: the fierce manticore of Gullsjor, charging across a blood-stained field.