burning

There was an ominous aura of melancholy on the streets of Bancross in the days after the battle. The worried faces and itching sword-arms had been quietly replaced by tear-filled eyes, hunched backs and feet dragging on the ground behind them. While our dead could be counted in a handful, the pained and wounded were more plentiful; some with missing limbs, while others got away with only deep cuts and bruises. The east-borne enemy had not fared as well.

Fiontann was standing in front of the ruins of the Barracks, arms crossed, head tilted slightly to the right, letting his hair fall to the side, a frown was formed on his face. He was standing motionless like that for some time, one couldn't tell if he was contemplating or just looking at the charred remains of what once was the Barracks of The Black Steel.His cloak was moving with each torrent of air that was passing, as well as his hair, revealing his face.

Thistlemead rose from his sleeping place in the middle of the field. He could still hear the cries of Greyleaf, whom had been tied to a pole in the exact middle of the camp. ‘He will get us all killed,’ he muttered as he came upon the group that had gathered around one of three campfires, ‘a merchant will be strolling down the road; he’ll hear screaming and call for the militia.’