Thunder in my Village

Ruminations upon the siege of Athonz

For the first time, the thunder was real. There was a curse upon the village. Two adventurers from the distant south came into the village on foot. Running from that curse. We gave them our beds for the night. The food from our farms were open, and they ate. There was word going into the entire village about two bountiful traders, ripe with the ability to labor. But our emeralds had only distracted their quest for the horse, so they said. They questioned us with the function behind our labor. It was too many potatoes, we asked for too many beets and their labor is only affordable if, not when, they decide to trade. I knew this weren't their first village.

And so the devil shouted guts from beyond their southern hills. It was an army chasing. An army from the south. Covered in enough iron plates to marry a golem, they weld arrows without feathers. Bolts, I would call them. Shots whizzed past the adventures and into the posts of distant houses. Their sound was so blatantly poisonous that the first instincts of everyone were to run inside their homes. But those homes could not be safe forever. The wells in the upper city are the only options to put out fires. The path to the upper parts of the village are the farmlands. To get there, it is a run first towards the bolts, and then a split to the west. Ending with a death run up the hill.

The adventures began their sprint towards the bolts. They were covered in the same type of smelted iron, but theirs were thick and in plates. Unhorsed knights, it would seem, in their tempered armor. And their Iron swords swung into the exposed skin of those bolt holders. That I could only know by watching them fly back when blood scattered the sky. Those blueskins act a lot like us. Look like a lot of us. But the mutation is so defiantly unholy. Do they seek to conquer us, to rid us of our skin? A question to come later, the priest is running the hill.

The priest mustn’t run alone. His step is my salvation, my journey up. And I must follow him. “May we rise atop either of the Holy hills!, Hëmúph”. My feet shuffled between my farmer's robes as I pushed the hill behind him. His purple robe had always been so noble. It flutters now, in the winds of haste. A flag for me to chase like a bull. I make the first climb through the dirty hills and up towards the well.

I dare not look behind me. Combat has a certain rhythm to it. It is run and a jump and the footsteps play the battle's bass. The priest has nearly made it halfway up the hill. He will have to pick between plunging into the farm's water, or going around the farm completely. But I doubt he knows where the plumbing is.

“Father Priest!” I yell to the running nose. “You must take the route to the right. Do not go straight through the farm!”

“You bastard” He yells back, “Your baby crops are no concern right now!”

…

Did the priest just call me a bastard? He didn't even ask why he shouldn't go through. Those crops are - in fact, no concern right now. He makes it to the flat farmlands and rushes straight through it. I see his head drop over the hill and his arms flair up with a splash.

The scream he lets out, “Mother of Knochers!” makes me wonder how he's ever survived a night. I look down to my feets and continue the climb. I bring my head up to the sound of splashing in the water, ready to see the priest in his soaked purple robe. His head, forced into the water, has a knee on his back and a hand keeping his arms down. All I could recognize were the rings on the priest's wriggling fingers as his arms got pressed sideways into the irrigation river. Those feet that kicked so violently made so little a splash. How can so much effort still bring such a dwarfed death.

My robe feels like ice on me now. Ice that slows my turn around, and my stepping feet through the farm back down. When did the splashing end? When did it begin? The heart beating out of my chest pulls my eyes away from my feet and up to two iron soldiers sprinting towards me full speed, their swords sticking up like spider teeth. My robe swings up as they fly by. The running, jumping, groaning of combat accompany my hurried breath down the farmland.

Around the hill again and I recognize the sun's position directly above us in the sky. It is time to eat and there is no food on the farms. Luckily I always keep bread and apples in my chest. For rainy days when the farms are too wet to harvest. But this rainy day is the storm I do fear. The red rain thunder that strikes through our protected hearts. Things will not be the same here.

The combat seems to have ended. Perhaps I can still go back up the hill. But those blueskins came from up there. No part of the city is safe.

Blood covers the path to my home and I struggle not to slip. I notice the eyes of my neighbors watching in horror as I rush through the street. How did I survive is probably what they're wondering. Or maybe, where is the priest.

The inner homes seem unaffected. But my inner mind screams again. The demon gurgle of that curse roars once more. The silence of my neighbors turned to yelps.

“The River!”, they cry, “More coming from beyond the river.”

The river is far. The front of my home is hidden beneath the curves that upper Athonz rests on. I tend the fields in the day and at night, I sleep under the cool coze below two roofs. The river crosses the lowest point of the plains on the other side of this hill. The footsteps of adventurers cross above me and I hear their running to the river. I have time… for what might be the last time.

At the footpath to my doorway, I look across the strip of land leading to the church. It is the only cobblestone in the village - Apart from the well he built. And why did he not stay within those stone walls? Have any other neighbors ventured too, into their doom?

Glass shatters and my focus shatters with it.

“Witches!” the people cried, “The air! Do not breathe the glass broken air!”

My door opens and shuts with a single motion. The air of my home has always made me calm. Time to eat. I rush to my chest and open it. Flies come out and the darkness of the chest exposes itself as empty space. My months of labor. Me, with my hoe well used, day in and day out. I planted each lifeless seed to grow food for the city, to keep for myself only what I needed. And yet, here I sit, starven and scared, with not so much as a crumb to bring me care. What God have I disappointed so with my service, as to curse me against even my fruits? Empty space… and empty time…

Screams slice through the streets and I fear we have lost another. The houses down here belong to the commoners. My farming assistant lives just down the street… so close to the outer houses. I wish I could see further from my windows. I would pray, If I had any use in doing so. ..

And so what can I do if not just sit here and wait? Dance with my doom in every second that I pass? Wondering: will the next knock be the last? What is a purpose in living with such fear? One that I cannot stop, nor even bear to hear? Is there healing, after such a strike? Or have I lost it all with a punch I cannot take… All I have is a hoe… but a hoe is still a hope.

Screams cut my chest. I recognize the tones of those lungs. The shrill reality of what I hear puts the worst into my mind. Red streets in a place that only knew white. Slain are all fabrics of peace we’ve been comforted in. Our golem was thrown into the cave when people couldn't stomach violence. A golem was a sore distraction from the century of peaceful prosperity that fueled our Athonz renaissance. The library sits directly above me. All damage up there will burn down onto me. And then I will know when the city has truly fallen.

In my gut I fear the worst. The screams have gone silent. Silent, like the silence you'd hear when sitting by the ravine near dusk. No birds. No crickets. The silence of the sun's ending, and the moon's coming siege. The sprinting of those iron footsteps brings me some sly comfort. Like a baby zombie, but the weight of each footstep can bring no fear of shin bites.

Guttural. Wailing with force and fury is the demonic roar. The guts of the drowned if they birthed from nether lava. And then came the terrestrial stompings that shook the hill behind me. The rattling of my door forces me to peer out the window. Across the strip of land leading to the church, I see the mass of ten hogs churned into a being so foul, any words used to describe it will instantly become unholy. It had two tusks the size of four human rib-bones stuck, legs the width of a creeper body, and it walked like a being spawned beneath the sea. It moved like everything around it was heavy water, forcing its way through with the strength of a horse.

I’ve heard stories about colossal beings from the north. White fur surrounded by white snow. Being so large it can swim in the freezing ocean surviving off only its body heat. They are animals built like weapons… yet the beast before me walks green grass.

More screams pierce my ears and I hear them right beside me. The neighbors across the street, in which my window does not reach, are running frantically around their house, knocking into walls and furniture with enough force to allow a vacancy for me to join their helpless suffering. I hear no iron footsteps. I hear no comfort in my body beside the familiar rumblings of my stomach. The house I’ve grown into, will be the house that falls with me. Stomps grow closer and shake my foundation with every closening step.

I notice the neighbors have stopped screaming. Footsteps on gravel have brought their scream into me. My stomach grows with a life force eager to blast open my mouth. To turn my fear into a weapon that can send it flying back outside of me. I can scream away the pains of lost days, my unborn children, my unloved wives. I can scream away with the emeralds I put better days into. I can scream away all that ever bothered or beautied me, in my too few years. Short lived, it can all seem, when you finally step up that hill. Yet. When you reach the top… the journey didn't feel like a journey at all. Just a short walk on gravel paths… And the time spent feels too easy to have been truly spent. So where does it go?

Has that time really gone into me? And if it did, will it leave with me? Those luscious fields I saw in front of my mothers brown robe, when she first brought me to the farmlands. Or the smell of bread those days after harvest. Does that goodness end with me? If only my memories can again know those feelings… and this world loses it… Is it gone for good?

A body slams into my roof and I hear the roar of that stomping beast. Suddenly, the ground quakes and trembles and I fear myself dying under the falling hill. The roar of that beast comes to me as cries, as cows make when it's time to take their leather. The footsteps on my roof dance with the melody of that beast's cries. I hear bolts fall off shields, and the groan of an adventure hitting the ground.

Music of combat between the beasts and the braves plays a violent string outside my house. My hope rests always in my hoe. It has yet to ever break on me, this stone hoe. It has failed me less than I have failed myself, those lonely days picking wheat. That bother of falling onto good crops and destroying them completely has woke me from some nightmares…

A flaring death cry, comparable only to an orchestra of burning pigs, follows with a pounding slam outside my door. Out my blood stained window, I stare at the sloppy entrails of a monster lain bare. The two adventures share bread with each other. I must ask if they have any to spare.

My door slams open and the adventurers flick to me in caution. Before I find breath to even murmur my request, they sprint off down the road in haste. They seem cautious of me… like they stole something of mine… Was that the bread in my chest?

Any moment of contempt I could hold for those iron thugs were interrupted by the certainty of my fears. The street lay bare with bodies of familiar faces. Damp air stuck to my face, a scent of decrepit golems and sweat rose from the glugging carcasses. The street was wet and red, a stream of fresh blood ran down into the water , turning its mouth dark and murky. My eyes sting against the air as my hairs rise with another bellowing cry of that demon mouth over the hill.

As though mirroring the ground, the sky turns into a dark, crimson red. The day nears an end and night will soon take over. That heavenly square that brings warmth for my body and life to our fields, thank you for all that you do. And goodnight, for my soul will rest with your light. Tonight, Athonz will fall red beyond your horizon, falling with you, for the first time.

Screams come with the sinking of my heart. No dweller of Athonz can scream with such force. Are those the adventurers? Finally falling to the bolt? Rushing into my wooden walls, I slam the door shut and listen. I hear no battle, but I'm certain it is here. Out my window I see nothing but light turning to night. Shadows that fade into the creatures of the night. Few times have I really seen those shadows transform. From an air so thin to flesh yearning bones. That sparkle of grass forming into tattered green skin, filled with hunger and hatred. My doors have never been knocked on by the dead. I stay cautious when I travel home, staying within torchlight even when it’s day. I feel comfort in that fires warmth. Perhaps, there can be warmth in a burning home.

Combat erupts above me. There is no order in this one. Like a stampede of cows trampling the hill above me. I hear heavy steps running in circles, the footsteps of many people. Many running people. And the occasional grunt.

SLAM

Onto my roof I hear the groan of an adventurer. They call out to their mate with the same voice I heard scream. Have they been separated? Permanently or temporarily? Can adventurers even be defeated? And was there any way to go on if these adventurers hadn't decided to stop running in our hills? But to run through our streets and over the hill past the river, past towards the grass where the horses roam… When they brought that curse with the shattering of lives… did they feel shame in bringing it through our streets? Was this their last stop on purpose, or incidentally? The end will come with the outsiders… Apparently that's what the people who lived in these lands before us said. I thought they spoke of us… and maybe they did. But perhaps that is the curse. To live on land that no longer exists to the people who first found it.

I hear the adventurer fall in front of my house and sprint towards the farmland. The rush of footsteps on the hill atop of me rush away, likely moving towards the farmland in chase. The adventurer must fight going up that dastardly hill. Bones crackle stiffly beside my house, on the other side of these walls, and I recognize its depravity. At night, it is said the hunters long gone rise up for a hunting of outsiders. It is the curse I am most familiar with… because they enjoyed hunting for us. But that certainly includes a ravaging bloodlust for the adventurers.

SLAM POP

Two heavy bodies fall on my roof this time. I hear the crunching of bread. Perhaps I don't really mind giving them my bread…

My stomach rumbles at the thought of baking dough. I hope the bakery is still standing, up atop that hill. It feels silent again. Perhaps that was all.

But perhaps today is meant to torment me. For a time that feels uncountable, the blaring roar over the hill signals that rest is impossible. Again, the ground quakes with monstrous stomps and I feel the rumbling is heading directly for the house. Footsteps still prance around my roof and I know I cannot be safe. I stick my eyes out the front window and see a horde of black-coated blueskins rushing up the street, shining white axes in hand.

The fear I could feel is tremendous, yet it seems as though I’ve exhausted every energy that worsens my helpless state. If I die, I will die knowing I have done my part, fulfilling my vocation with selfless servitude - Supplying food for those who need to eat.

SLAM POP

The two adventurers fall directly in front of my house and press their back into my door. I can see their iron suits sticking through as the rumbling of a beast grows near. Bolts send shocks like thrown rocks into the wood of my walls, echoing the outside clamor to my inner sanctuary. Gravel crunches with intense charge and heavy steps.

No God will look to earth when netherspawn fill our streets.

Whizzing arrows smack rough against wooden shields, dropping to the floor with a ring. The sprinting iron soldiers take charge of each road leading to my home. Out my window I see shields meeting swords and the slams against heavy blows. Heavy metal sings in open air. Swords beat against iron plates and cut through bodies with screams. Thumping, and pounding - outside my thin wooden walls - stains my window a richer, darker red. Who knew red could be so rich? So deep with color, so close to black?

Sprinting and jumping and the groans of pain become an orchestra. I reach to my hoe and grab it for a dance. Smacking! and Slamming! play the melody for our song, and I spin around with my hoe in hand! I spin to screams of pain! I float upon their agony! I spin around the broken swords, I fall upon their pieces! I spin around, and around, and again to the sound, of restless release!, with its record growing endless!! Bones crack, and I sing with the beast! The roar of those burning pigs delight much of my soul! And the thumping bodies, they protect my peace! Protect me! and the Protector of my home is the hoe in my hands, holding the hope to protect all the land - I spin! And I spun! And I spin! And I spun! And the bell outside has rung! And the bell outside has rung?

The market is not open? Who would ring such a bell. But where is the sound? The combat has quelled? I do not hear a sound, and if I were to look, I would die. There's only so much red I can see in my life. But I am filled with red, so how bad can it be? I can look out the window, and maybe it's brown that I’ll see.

So I look out the window, and all I see is red. But I hear not a sound, so all must be dead?

As my window drips red, I must see with an open door. Perhaps It wont open it to the reddest of floors. And I open the hole to the dampest scents of death. And step out to an aftermath that only wolves could ever love. But at the end of my search, emerging tall behind the church, is the fluttering white of a dove.