The Darkness Steals The Light - The Elim Chronicles

Shadow

Snowflakes waltz in a magical serenade, each dance a unique ballet in the sky. The tiny pearls of fragile snow fall into a somber gaze that peers from beneath a cavernous hooded cloak.

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General Aldard glances up at the sky, the swirling snow blinding his sight. He shields his eyes as the tiny pearls cling to his thick eyebrows. His matted autumnal hair peaks from beneath his green hooded cloak, a meager curtain to block the frigid gale. Charcoal clouds glide above him, casting shadowy apparitions onto the freezing moors. The ghoulish wind whispers with a thousand wails.

Three turns' of relentless march, trudging through the coming winter. Curse the moors and rains, which came untamed. Copper veins freeze with the thin veils of the coming winter; beneath the fine ice, mucky waters trickle, clinging to summer's dwindling flow.

The soldiers' march on, slogging across the boundless wild moorlands of peat, squelching bogs, and thick heather. Their footfall, a rhythmic cadence, and a shared heartbeat in the desolate landscape.

Aldard marches at the forefront of the collum, his boots sinking into the sodden earth and his breath forming ghostly plumes in the frigid air. His voice cuts through the howling gusts, "pick up the pace, and we'll make camp before nightfall." His voice is stronger than he feels.

"Aye, general," the soldiers mumble, their voices drowned out by the moaning wind. Fickle faith. A soldier's duty.

Aldard presses on, his men following without complaint. His captain, Algwain, pushes the troops from the rear, with words of encouragement in the somber silence.

Occasional arrows whistle overhead, thudding into the tender flesh of wild hares and late-season pheasants. Dusky clouds part above the marching soldiers, and the falling sun's kiss brings a welcome blush of dwindling warmth.

"General," a broad Galt accent calls from the scout ahead, "the Standing Stones."

Infectious laughter and chatter spring among the soldiers as they approach the giant circle of looming stone pillars. Conversations are rich with the promise of hot food and a fire-warmed night.

The ancient standing stones of Galt come into view, a welcome sight and home for the night. Fragile rays of waning sunlight filter through the towering stone pillars, their spiraling concentric walls battered by time. The colossal stones lean inward, with unfathomable roots buried deep within the earth. They reach upward, grasping for celestial power. Faded runes adorn their tips where sunlight illuminates the stone peaks with gargantuan stone faces. Neither man nor beast, their weathered features obscured in history, retold in folklore. If the ancient stones could speak, they would recount bygone wars fought by creatures lost to time.

Aldard leads the soldiers through the Standing Stones; his gaze meets that of his men with reassuring nods. Aldard brushes his fingers across the damp lichen on the megalithic surfaces. He marvels at the intricate carvings, tracing the lines of ancient men and beasts carved into stone. Captain Algwain strides alongside him, and they exchange relieved glances as the men fall into the rhythmic ritual of making camp.

The marching formation breaks as Aldard dumps his pack onto the stony floor. He glances around the weathered stone circle, his memory drifting back to thirteen great cycles ago. "On the eastern edge, under the piled heather, you'll find firewood and kindling wrapped in woolen blankets. On the outermost southern circle, you'll find skins of wine stashed under the stacked boulders."

The troops spring into action, dashing between the spiraling walls. "General, there's kindling and firewood. It's damp, but it'll serve," calls a soldier from the distance. "General, six skins of wine," responds another with a giddy laugh.