ps. If someone buys me CS6 or any photoshop for that matter I will illustrate it ;)
Exhausted They Pushed On, Towards the Cornflower Horizon.
His one remaining grey brow flickered in the coastal breeze. His seared flesh twinkled in the light of the blaze.
“They
came en mass,” he mumbled, as though through a mouth of grit.
“How
many?” replied a spear toting serf. The old man paused and stared,
long, and hard into the flames.
“Many”
He
could feel the fear gripping all of them, old and young, weak and
strong. A lone rider dropped his wood-axe and bags and fled as fast
as his stubby pony could manage.
The
night wore on with the locals huddled round the burning debris. The
crackling timbers held the remaining temple wing together. “Get
away from that you fool,” rumbled the priest, waving his staff “you
people know nothing”. He began shuffling along the path, his staff
wobbled as he leant on it heavily. The towns folk followed. “Watch
the low and dark places,” he said “they seem more at home in the
dark”
“So
we all make a torch and wave them into the night.” resolutely
declared a minute-man and drew a tinder block from his canvas sack.
“We shall need... many.” and glowered at the priest.
The
rough and dusty roads were tough going, they pulled the contorted and
groaning survivors on wagons, the horses had all reared and fled
during the raid. Their sweat ran cold and the growing wind froze them
to the yokes. Hours passed and the sun began its ascent from the
triple peaked Valentine Uplands. Exhausted they pushed on, towards
the cornflower horizon. The path grew thinner and steeper. It wound
its way up the forested slope.
A
voice from the rear of the caravan threw out an agonising howl.
“The
beasts have returned, my flock, hurry!” bellowed the old man and
drew from under his robes a short crossbow, barely a cubit long and
could probably shoot as far. More bodies came to the aid of the
wagons, to lumber them on. Less joined the fray to the rear.
“We
take the next gully and hold it”.
They
were in clear view below, over the last crest line, those shadows
from the dark, knarled and writhing they hacked apart the rear most
wagons with grunts of delight. Approaching swiftly they lowered their
heads, now only a bow shot away. Facing them were the men brave
enough to look, their backs against those of the wagon pushers.
“Have
we killed any yet?” Shouted the minute-man to the assembled
defenders.
“I
seen two slain,” retorted an invalid “skewered as they charge”
“Where
is this gully!”
“Just
by the saddle of these mountains” panted the old man. They all
stopped and stared. It seemed an age away and it may as well had
been. They were just too fast. Too brutal. The fear returned. Their
shoulders ached and their feet throbbed. Their spears heavy and the
wagons onerous.
“These
steps will be our last” said the minute-man, melancholy dripped
from every word. The ground rumbled as they approached, louder and
louder. The group revenantly stared, bar one. The invalid looked
round, quizzically.
“These
beasts are light on their feet,” he thought “they were silent
through the night”
Over
the ridge below burst all manor of polished metal. The Knights of
Valentine hurtled towards their foe. Their destriers, clad in dawn
haloed barding punched deep through the sanity stripped horde. Beaten
by the charge they crumbled. Within a heartbeat no beast stood.
A
lone pony followed over the ridge, stumbling from exhaustion, the
rider swung his wood-axe into the air and jeered before falling to
the ground.
Dale
