BloodLust

The little town stood in the middle of a flowing field of grain, golden and dancing in the sun and the wind. The hay was almost ready to be harvested and the days were getting colder, but it was not yet fall. The sun was shinning with the glory of mid-day, and the little town was still sleeping despite the late hour, silently under the watchful guard of the surrounding hills comprising of lush green grass with the occasional boulder or two rising from the green beauty much like the sea. Towards the top of the hills were sheer rock walls, massing to encompass the vale completely. Terraced upon the hills sloping upward, were neat rows of little tan cottages with thatched roofs. The streets were smoothed river rocks, gathered from the fresh stream that flowed in front of the hills, and the horse’s shoed hooves clacked against them as the baker rolled his wagon out into the town square. The square, being round in shape was called a square due to an old joke between too good friends, was dotted with shop stalls, where every Sunday the townsfolk would gather to barter wares. It was a peaceful, happy place. War did not plague the people, for the wars of kings that battled over the lands meant little to them, one king was no better than the other, they all were cruel. A retaining wall of brick and mortar enclosed the slumbering city standing twelve feet from the first street, with a night guard, for the townsfolk did not fear the beautiful days, and in the glowing sun the grain swayed dancing in the breeze.
The mortar was rough against his hands, not that he would notice it. Calluses coated his palm and fingers, leaving no trace of the soft smooth skin he had as a child. He had worked in those fields his whole life, tending them, caring for the village. His ancient blue eyes spoke stories to all that knew him; behind those eyes were the secrets to life, death, and everything in between. His once dark, brown hair, had long ago turned white, however his muscles were still lean, his jaw still strong, and his usually smiling face, was but a stern thin line stretched taunt from the sight that lay before him. Sir Isaac James Thompson, had governed his people fairly, and was well like by man, woman, and child. His heart was as big as the stature he possessed. Standing tall, at 6'3", he towered over the general populace. When walking, he took large strides, not liking to be in between places, or tasks, in his mind the shorter amount of time it took him to get somewhere the longer he had to get things done. One of the greatest joys he had in life was working alongside the townsfolk that he governed, whether it is a day in the fields, an hour in front of the anvil, or a lifetime beneath a whip; he would do so for it was just. He looked behind him for a fleeting moment at the room above the world; it was the only place he really cared about. For within the walls of his home laid his greatest treasure not yet ready to greet the day, and he silently prayed they both would be able to say goodbye to the end of it.
The Ram’s horns were blown, jolting the little girl awake; her heart was beating furiously within her young eight year old chest. Wondering what was happening to cause the warning horns to sound, the blonde haired little girl walked over to the cold rounded stone window that was in the wall of her room. Overlooking the town, the mayor’s only daughter, little Olivia face covered in freckles looked out with wide round green eyes onto a fresh battlefield the lines painted at her doorstep, the towns meager militia only just coming up to rebel the enemy army preparing to ransack the town. Filling with fear, the little girl, not even four foot yet, rushed to dress her-self. The nightstand on the wall stood obtrusively in the way. She splashed water on her face from the opaque porcelain basin, sitting upon her vanity. The cold water refreshing her mind chased away the final thoughts of exhaustion from her mind.

“Maria,” she hollered down the stone corridor, calling her hand maiden to her side, as the echoes continued down through the mayor’s home. Standing at two stories tall and the only building to do so, the house towered at the top of the hill, partially built into the safety of the rock itself. Maria ran from the adjoining room, her small slippered feet slapping against the stone floor with every step, into the sleeping chambers of her mistress. “I need to be dressed in my gear.” Olivia said breathless with excitement. Her emerald eyes shinning with the adrenaline rushing through her veins, it was finally time, they were coming, she could feel it.
“As you wish mistress,” said the twelve year old in a small timid voice, as she then began rushing about grabbing the gear that the little girl would need. The two of them flew around each other in a graceful dance, going back and forth compiling the appropriate outfit with the efficiency of routine and practice, preparing for the battle ahead. When they had completed the steps, little Olivia stood garbed head to toe in the iron and leather that her battle gear was comprised of. Upon her brow where typically a small, delicate, silver band graced her head, sat a helm of black iron with gold swirls painted upon its crown. About her arms were clasped greaves, armed with silver lancets died red, that the light danced upon viciously. Her legs were wrapped in leather pants, triple layered, and iron plated on the outer edge. The slippers were replaced with iron toed shoes, with leather underneath and sheepskin below that, so her feet were kept safe and smooth. The bright angel looked upon her reflection, knowing that any who met with her upon this day, wouldn’t know her as the sweet little girl that graced the town, but as the grim reaper herself, laying waste to the lives of others who dared disturber her cherished home.
“Claire, sound the alert bell, we must warn father of our arrival.” Olivia’s green eyes looked from her reflection in the floor length mirror to the battlefield, as the sounds of war for the first time in this part of the world reached her young ears. She stared harshly out onto the land that she loved, the land in which she had lived for more years than she could count, for that was her blessing and her curse. It pained her to know that she brought this here, knowing that her life should have been lost long ago, and that others would suffer for one lonely soul’s decision to save her life. It wasn’t just, the world could be so cruel, but that was why she breathed, why she lived; to fix the horror.

Raising his shield in time by a second’s breadth, the arrows pierced the wood in front of Sir Thompson in protest, disappointment following their eager flight to claim his life. It was the twelfth volley they had sent off in no more than five minutes. It had felt like hours, kneeling then rising, kneeling then rising. He cast a cold glance at their progress, and the realization hit him hard in the gut, unless he could get their meager defenses in position now, they would surely lose the town. Why here, why now? His thoughts were almost too slow for the real reason for the assault suddenly became apparent to him. They were here for Olivia, for the secret she possessed, for the reason he had built this town here. They were here because of Blood Lust. As his mind was working, a midnight blue dragon landed in this midst of the field, Oh God, all is lost. As he thought it, the flame piece the wall setting light to the three score militia they had barely scrapped together. Their screams echoing down the cobbled streets of blue river-rock, now stained with innocent blood, the mortar turning red, and the stench of burning flesh rose into the mid-day sky, waking the town from their dazed, unaccustomed sleep, to face the nightmare at their door-step. Reagan was here.