The corpses were piled around me. Some still moaning. Their weapons fallen. Their armor struck in twain. And my axe dripped with their blood. I was covered in gore, and sweat, and mud, and the gods know what else.
And it was glorious!
We had clashed with with the Crewn twice that day. First at the Lithune Redoubt. They took that before we had even arrived. We merely provided a safe retreat, holding them in turn as those who survived got back into our lines. All told it wasn’t a complete wash, though we did lose some good people. More importantly, I didn’t get to see any action.
Then we got wind of reinforcements moving in on the redoubt from the southwest. The paths there weren’t easy. Though they were hidden. So we struck - hard and fast. We came tumbling down the rocks, and with the rocks, as much a part of the avalanche as we were a retaliation of the gods.
Oh it was glorious. The Crewn didn’t know where to turn, so trapped were they by their own numbers and ours. We ran down the slope, screaming and swinging and then we ran on. We bowled through their line and continued on down into the valley to run.
That was good fun. A good run too. Keeping pace with a rolling stone is harder than you think. But works wonders to keep the archer’s eye off you.
Okay, I know, you’re not here for that. You want to know how I came to be so celebrated, and yet the last of my kind. Well sit a while and listen.
Today’s art is courtesy of Halil Ural from Helsinki, Finland.