A story i'm writing. (Opinions please)


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This is not even the full prologue, one day I hope to publish this as a work. I will have spent a very long time on it, and i'd like your opinions on this small portion of it so far...

Sorry about the lack of spacing between sentences, it's a pain the ass to do here...

The Battle of Twisted Spears

By: Rusty Sinis

Kerchlunk, kerchlunk. The smell of a thousand dead men littered the air, and the soil under Sir Aethim's feet was soggy and loose. Slowly the knight labored along the outskirts of the battlefield, head held low, emotions even lower. The deep mud had seemed to rust his armour by the minute. Feet cold and bones aching and frozen, the knight fell to his knees. A cold wind passing by him as if a wave of icy water had overcome him, he began to weep. Weeping for his family, weeping for his men, weeping for himself and all that he had sacrificed. The tears freezing on the knights face as his thick fingers punctured the smooth mud to prevent himself from collapsing to the ground. He had not noticed yet, the wound in his hip which he disregarded during battle became deeper and the skin around had hardened. It felt as if icicles had peirced his skin and were getting sharper every moment he sat. "Sire! Sire! Lord Fen summons you." The squire, wearing his tight fitting leather pants and equally fitting coat had stumbled along the field as if he too had been wounded in battle. But not a drop of soil stained his clothes nor blood, and he still looked as healthy as a newly born child. The squire helped the knight to his feet, his feet quickly gave out, but the burly squire made no notice of it and just as quickly caught the knight before he fell. It took the men a long while to get to the tent of Lord Fen, and the look of the tent, stained with blood from the passing wounded soldiers made the knight all the more reluctant to enter.

The air inside the tent had been warm, too warm for it to be as cold as it was outside. In the middle of the tent next to a stack of books sat a chair of rigid yet smooth wood, the legs peircing through the soil seemed to strain under the weight of the man sitting in it; "Lord Fen, Sir Aethim..." The man standing up with his back to them as if seeming to have not heard the squire. He began ruffling through a large, unorderly cluster of papers. "Lord Fen, Sir Aethim is here." "Leave us, and go assist the wounded" waving a rough hand over his shoulder as to dismiss the squire. With a slight and seemingly meaningless bow, the squire scurried out of the tent. "Aha! Here it is, I knew it was here, but that lazy boy never seems to remember anything. Pretty soon i'll have him carrying the wounded back from the battlefield if he doesn't learn how to keep things straight around here." Lord Fen, a rather tall man with broad shoulders and a presence about him that commanded respect, turned around with a large stack of dusty parchment and let out a heavy breath that he seemed to have been holding on to for ages, as he dropped the parchment on the table in between the men. Staring at the wound that covered the right hip of the knight, Lord Fen seemed to examine it. "Have you gotten that looked at yet, cleansing and bandages are needed. It will infect within the day if it is not taken care of." Without giving the knight a chance to reply, Lord Fen pulled his chair up from behind and sat with a deep sigh as if all the aching in his body from long hours of reading parchment scrolls had dispersed in that moment. "The High King Aetharac has sent out more troops to help assist with the effort against the Flaws. This has seemed as all but for the better for the forces, but you know what it means..." With a weary and saddened look in his eyes the knight dropped his head, and gave a sigh of submission. Then with as much fire in his eyes as there had been hopelessness moments earlier, he raised his head. "Aye, Sir." The knight knew what had to be done. What must be done.

The war which had been waged for the past two and fifty years had been one of the bloodiest and widespread of it's age. Armies fell, countries trampled, spirits and wills undone by the seemingly omnipotent nameless diety of fear. The nameless Lord who had unleashed the horrors of which mythological stories possessed. The horrors of which were thought of to only have existed in the stories of a threatening parent to convince a disobedient child of it's punishment if they did not obey. It was a task only a few of the bravest of men could stomach, and a task that even fewer could survive. Unfortunately for the knight, a choice didn't exist. He had already sacrificed the most precious of gifts years afore. The gift of freedom of obligation to his land and his oath. Sir Aethim no longer fought for either one of these. Instead, he fought for the day upon which he would be allowed to return to peace. Allowed to return to the sweet smell of blossoming flowers; purple's, yellows, gentle blue's which were so gracefully scattered amongst the gentle slopes of the hills. The hills he used to so dearly enjoy running amongst as a child, the hills he wished he could see this very day. Home. Instead, he saw death. Images which tangled the beautiful memories of home. Images of mangled comrades. Eye's eternally gazing into a final glimpse of hopelessness. Blades of steel tainted with evil protruding from the hearts of men. Men who spoke of returning home as well. What stopped him from suffering the same fate?

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