Post by bacon on Sept 12, 2020 22:03:03 GMT 1
Even among Lightfoot, Bacon was small. A runt of a being.
As his little legs made quick work as he walked east to the Eye Stronghold, he began to slow his pace. Where one would expect the sounds of laughter, merchant banter and nervous animals, the silence in the air was crushing. He wound his way up the hill to the fort, its gates crushed wide open, bodies strewn about, none were left aside. Even Free Folk visitors were slain. The air had a stench but Bacon did not care. His final moments came quickly. He remembered the face of a former hunting partner before his chest collapsed with a large violent hammer. His body pilfered for goods as he found his way back to Haven. His first home after the long sea voyage so long ago.
He stood on its safe walls for days. Uncertain which way to go. He heard stories of fellows within the Order wandering into the plains and not returning; leaving unarmed with no desire to eat or protect themselves. His own melancholy ended with a short exchange as he overlooked the North Seas.
We need you. It's time to return
Bacon was not sure it was a question, a plea or an order. He turned to see Mayor Cliff behind him. Gone was his drive. He was a ghost of a man, his pale face still had that firm jaw. Damn those Mythos. A race built for war. It's all they knew.
Your war gods won't protect you. They will be back. Your training grounds will become areas of death where they will find you. You are no match. Not even a mild worry to them. The Forsaken have tasted a level of success that can't be denied. Your lands belong to them. They control the north, the south and where the dragons fly. You will never reap the treasures of dragons again. What are you going to do, defend your walls with spears and leather armor? Build a boat. Flee.
Cliff watched quietly as Bacon continued his rant, his eyes never looking away.
Even the dragons sleep. The Gods will hear our prayers. The West Winds will surge again. Join us.
Bacon closed his eyes and let a long breath out. The Mythos skulls were too think to understand reality.
I am not the answer to your prayers. There are hundreds of warriors stronger than I, why me?
For the first time Cliff smiled and a large shadow walked behind him, soon becoming the shape of JollyGreenGiant.
It's a big prayer little Lightfoot. Many verses. Many hands. Many feet. Would make us proud if you returned back, and he smiled. His teeth the size of his weapon of choice.
Fine. My small knife is yours.
--and so began Bacon's return to the fold of Order, which he embraced with the same enthusiasm as a bad toothache
As his little legs made quick work as he walked east to the Eye Stronghold, he began to slow his pace. Where one would expect the sounds of laughter, merchant banter and nervous animals, the silence in the air was crushing. He wound his way up the hill to the fort, its gates crushed wide open, bodies strewn about, none were left aside. Even Free Folk visitors were slain. The air had a stench but Bacon did not care. His final moments came quickly. He remembered the face of a former hunting partner before his chest collapsed with a large violent hammer. His body pilfered for goods as he found his way back to Haven. His first home after the long sea voyage so long ago.
He stood on its safe walls for days. Uncertain which way to go. He heard stories of fellows within the Order wandering into the plains and not returning; leaving unarmed with no desire to eat or protect themselves. His own melancholy ended with a short exchange as he overlooked the North Seas.
We need you. It's time to return
Bacon was not sure it was a question, a plea or an order. He turned to see Mayor Cliff behind him. Gone was his drive. He was a ghost of a man, his pale face still had that firm jaw. Damn those Mythos. A race built for war. It's all they knew.
Your war gods won't protect you. They will be back. Your training grounds will become areas of death where they will find you. You are no match. Not even a mild worry to them. The Forsaken have tasted a level of success that can't be denied. Your lands belong to them. They control the north, the south and where the dragons fly. You will never reap the treasures of dragons again. What are you going to do, defend your walls with spears and leather armor? Build a boat. Flee.
Cliff watched quietly as Bacon continued his rant, his eyes never looking away.
Even the dragons sleep. The Gods will hear our prayers. The West Winds will surge again. Join us.
Bacon closed his eyes and let a long breath out. The Mythos skulls were too think to understand reality.
I am not the answer to your prayers. There are hundreds of warriors stronger than I, why me?
For the first time Cliff smiled and a large shadow walked behind him, soon becoming the shape of JollyGreenGiant.
It's a big prayer little Lightfoot. Many verses. Many hands. Many feet. Would make us proud if you returned back, and he smiled. His teeth the size of his weapon of choice.
Fine. My small knife is yours.
--and so began Bacon's return to the fold of Order, which he embraced with the same enthusiasm as a bad toothache