Dakho
()[o__o]()
- Reaction score
- 75
I just noticed this section a few days ago, and recently I felt like putting something in it. I ended up with a (very) short intoduction to a possible story. Please note I don't free write all that much, so don't expect anything amazing. Anyways, here it is:
It was with a sudden rush that Brenn's consciousness returned to him. As he opened his eyes he saw only a blurry haze. Once his vision had cleared, and his senses had returned to him, he felt something moist upon his face. The wetness he felt upon his cheeks and brow was first thought to be mud, but as Brenn wiped it away with his gloved hand he quickly discovered it was blood. With that realization he felt as if his mind had suddenly been jolted, and the memories came flowing back. The raid... quickly Brenn stood up, brushing off the dirt from his leather armor, though some of it was caked with mud. But it wasn't his ruined armor that bothered Brenn; it was the scene that lay before him. He looked around. The dust had settled, and the blood splattered across the ground had long dried. Mangled bodies lay strewn about across the field; some frozen in their final moments of torment. Disgusted, Brenn looked up at the sky, but only felt it's tranquility as bitter irony. As his eyes drifted back down to the horrific scene, he felt an uneasiness in his stomach. But it was alas the sight of his brother, brutally dismembered and raised into the air by a crude spear, that drove Brenn over the edge. His legs went limp and he collapsed to the ground, trembling and shaking. He cradled his head in his hands, and his tears joined the mixture of dirt and mud that was the ground below him. Alone he languished on the field, with the feeling of complete desolation. At last the tears dried and Brenn felt induced to survey the scene one last time. It was in this solemn state that he noticed something he had not before; a body lay amongst the others, the face covered with a crimson mask. Even in death the stranger held his bloodied scimitar in a tight grip. He looked like a man of the wild; his clothing was worn and frayed, and his hair was tousled and unkempt. He seemed brutish, and certainly larger than the average person. It was with this inspection that a revalation suddenly took hold of him: "Defias..."