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The wind blew down off of the mountain, whipping past the dark fir trees clad in virgin snow. It leaped like a trout over the gorge, plunging down the side of the cliff face with the churning whitewater to meet with the rapids below. The wind diminished as the river turned into a stream, and then the stream to a creek; all the while running past and through dark the craggy foothills, the dark glades of the forest, and finally the green pastures where the wind and creek eventually ended in a small pond laying in a dappled grove of fruit trees at the far end of a farmer's fields.
There the warm sun shone down upon August Fields, warming his tanned skin as he leaned against the bole of a tree and resting his feet in the cool water of the pond. Resting in his hands was a fishing pole. The wind died down and nothing stirred the warm, summer air but the beating of a flies' wings. It alighted upon August's nose and then flew away again as he blew his breath upon it, stirring his sun-bleached brown hair. At the ripe age of twenty-two, August should have married and started his own farm on a plot next to his father's by now, yet he had not. Nothing had ever seemed to interest August much. According to his father, he was a good-for-nothing lay-about. August gladly worked the fields when his father told him to as seen by his toned muscles and rough palms, yet his problem was he lacked drive and initiative. Thus he lay in the grove now, fishing as he waited for the daily bell for dinner.
August woke up suddenly; the warm summer sun had placed him under its spell. It was late now, almost sunset. Later than it should be. Someone should have come looking for him by now, they all knew his favorite place on the farm was the fruit grove, so why had no one come for him. He stood up, bones popping in protest after their inactivity; he wrinkled his nose. The air smelled of smoke. Strange . . .
He tramped across the darkening fields under the blood-red sunset. In the distance, smoke rose up like a dark cloud of war against the sky. It came from the direction of the building's. He ran, until finally, he tripped over something. He winced, pushing himself off of the ground and looked down to see what he had tripped over. His brother, Shaun, stared up at him with glassy eyes. August fell to his knees again as his world crumbled down around him.
After what seemed like an eternity, he stumbled onwards towards the house and barns. His dark path was littered with grim wards. His mother, his father, his sister Annabella, his other brother Kenwood, and the twins Valiant and Hope all stared up at him as if to accuse him.
"Where were you?"
They screamed silently.
"You're never here when we need you, and now in our greatest hour of need you were missing again! Why? Why? Why? Why? Why . . ."
He sobbed. Why had this happened? Why us? What had we done to deserve this? WHY?
He reached the buildings. The grain barn was gone. Burnt away. All their work from the last harvest. Ruined. Men in dark armour chuckled and joked among themselves as they herded swine out from another barn as other men approached with tinder and torches. Another group of men came out of the house, their arms loaded high with the family silverware that had been passed down through the generations. One of them spotted him, dropping his plunder and pointing at him, yelling. August turned away, running. He shadow streamed ahead of him as if to say,
August glanced behind, but the sun blinded him, making it impossible to see his pursuers. He could hear them though. Then, he fell. He tried to get back up, but his right leg didn't seem to be working. He glanced down in panic. They would catch him if he didn't run! But then he saw it. An arrow was sticking halfway out of his leg and he was losing blood quickly. The last thought that floated through his mind before he fainted was that he would never wake again . . .
August slowly awoke. He gasped as his mind was caught in a flash-flood of memories. His hand shot down to his leg, trying to stem the flow of blood. He needed to escape before they caught him! But instead of the sticky feel of blood on his fingers, all that met his hand was the feel of clean, new linen. Someone nearby chuckled.
"Don't worry kid, I fixed 'ya up."
August propped himself up on his elbows and glanced around. He was on a standard issue field mattress. Narrow, tough, and darn annoying. Around him were other cots and a table of medical instruments. All of it was under a large canvas pavilion stretched between many ashen poles; they looked to be spears. A steady stream of people bustled past towards other duties elsewhere in the camp. Magically suspended from the center of the pavilion was an orb glowing with a steady, pale, blue-tinged light. The voice noticed his fascination with the object and said,
"Pretty ain't it? Our battalion wizard, who goes by the nickname of Shepherd 'cause he likes to polymorph our enemies, made it for me. Gots to have a steady light, see? I'm the local doc round here. People call me Patches on account o' me having to patch guys like you up after you get into scrapes."
August turned and looked at him. He was about 5'6" and relatively scrawny with long, black hair that was tied back in a pony-tail and a smooth-shaven, narrow face. He had the sleeves of his shirt pushed up and tattooed on his right forearm was a picture of a polka-dotted patch.
"Any who, the Cap is coming down to speak with you, he should be here soon. You jes' sit tight until he gets here."
Patches gave August a wink and bustled off to clean up some of his tools.
"Wait! Why . . ."
"I told ya' already! The Captain is coming, he'll answer all your questions when he gets here!"
Patches replied, going back to his tools.
Sure enough, a tall man clad in worn plate mail soon entered. He gave August a glance, and then looked over at Patches. Patches nodded and the man strode over to stand by August's cot. August opened his mouth to speak, but the man held up a hand, stopping him. The man had a way about him that made you want to obey.
"There is no need for you to speak."
I already know what you will ask. We killed your family because we needed supplies for our mission and your family objected. Without those supplies we would have died, so we took them. You are here because we need more men. We are the 22nd Battalion of the Stormwind Royal Guard, otherwise known as the Forerunner Squadron and you have been drafted. You will address me as "Sir" or "Captain". You will obey all orders or we'll give you to the Horde to do with as they will. Don't think we won't, we've done it before. You will stay the night here in the infirmary under the care and supervision of Patches. Serve well enough and long enough and you can go free with full honors. If you have any more questions, ask Patches. Get some rest soldier, we move out tomorrow."
And with that, the Captain walked off into the night, joining the flow of other soldiers. Patches drifted over.
"I know it must be tough for you and all, having to serve the guys that just killed your family. But trust me, the Captain's a good guy. He wouldn't have killed 'em unless he
needed those supplies. Without 'em, our mission would probably fail and the Alliance would be over run. Your family died for their nation. So, get some rest, you need it. Oh! By the way, you got any name you want to go by? You better make up your mind quick or else the pranksters round here will give you something you won't like, 'cept it's going to stick."
"I am Sorrow."
Patches opened his moth to speak and then thought better of it and closed his mouth, instead, just reaching over to give him a quick squeeze on the shoulder and then walking off.
Sorrow turned over on his side, away from the world and cried himself to sleep.
I'm sad now, Queggy. :(
Good read though, even if it made me shed a tear.
Write more.This looks good so far.
Wow... don't think the Alliance would do that, but you never know.
Heh, excellent work as always Queggy.
But want MOAR Hellscream!
Wow... don't think the Alliance would do that, but you never know.
Nice read, but what did they do? I'm confused sligthly.
Too early where I'm at XD
Basically the 22nd Battalion of the Stormwind Royal Guard (aka the Forerunner Squadron due to them being always sent to the frontlines) came by a farm to get some supplies for their mission. The farmers objected and the Battalion fought back, killing everyone except for the oldest son who was off on his own at the time. The son, August Fields (now known as Sorrow), came back and saw everyone killed. He tried to run away, but the Forerunners put an arrow through his leg to stop him. He woke up in an infirmary tent to discover he had been drafted and his only hope of survival was to fight for his nation.
I realize that the prologue has a few rough patches that make you wonder, such as:
Why were they so hasty to resort to violence? And why is August not objecting as much as you think he would?
FEAR NOT! I shall explain in the next edition!
Ah, I see.
A very good read. And rougue patches like those only help draw the readers attention. WTB next edition.
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
It a marine from Starcraft. Beats me where he go it.
And just when I thought Queggy's gopher avatar was the best ever, he proves me wrong with this one. (Well, actually the gopher was a little better ;) )
Where did you get that space-man thing from?
As to where I got it . . . I've got mad icon-finding skills.
Queggy, you ^&*!@, you will write us all moar Ferrous and Hellscream then you will write moar of this.
Will ready later
But . . . but . . . but . . .
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