soul of the marionette

CH 1: WAR ITSELF

"Could time heal this?" the thought pierced my mind as I stared at the barren waste land. The skin of the goddess Terra was riddled with the bodies of men who were too young to be on the battlefield. they seemed to claw at my heel and shake my ears with their screams as I walked by. My nose ached with the smell of death and smoke; the sky covered its eyes with clouds as not to see the aftermath of its son. The trees-once brimming with life-prayed for their goddess to give them the fruit they once bore. The breath of logi tuned all in its path to cinders and ash. Smoke brought tears to my eyes as the medics ran around me carrying the bodies. Their eyes seemed to stare at me, hoping I'd be the one to close them. The dirt clung to my skin as I dropped my blade. The sound replacing the whispers of the shouts around me. The land that once held one of the greatest trees and forest now became the new home to blood and the graves of soldiers. I closed my eyes and let the tears of the sky wash away the blood and grime off my face. "SIR" the wind called to me, "SIR" it stirred around me picking up the scent. "SIR" the echo of the slam broke me from my thought. The noise of the tavern becoming second to the voice of the man in front of me, "want another refill?" his voice scratching the air around me. I shook my head looking into the cup of ale before me. He let out a small grumble as he made his way done the bar. The tavern came to life; the cheers and laughter flowed through the air caring the joy of the small town. "Don't mind him" A joyous man said to me. The air became flavored with the ale that stained his breath. He gripped my shoulder and shook me. I took one last swing and gave the man a simple nod. The life of the tavern surrounds me; the dwarves took one another by the shoulders and swung from side to side, singing in the tunes of their Homeland. The reclusive elves kept to themselves in the corner whispering over the secrets of their elders. No one cared who was next to them they all shared the same drink. The life died when the wooden door flew open; a soldier dressed in purple, and gold held a scroll. His voice muffled itself against the yells of protest. The soldier's words became mumbles, and he stumbled over his own words. Men of old stood up, cup in hand to defy the will of the ungrateful king that was now forcing them to war. A cup flew and landed on the soldier's clean uniform. All turned to see the drunkard, his cheeks flushed red and his movements slow and clumsy. He tried his best to escape the guards that came from all sides to slam him on the ground. The world seemed to be drained its color as boys of all ages scrambled and ran through the barracks searching for their armor and weapons. Older men hefted up the heavy materials the dwarves used in their forges. The world seems to unravel when war is close. Men and women in royal armor gathered the old and young to collect them for their teams, "many of you will not survive," the burly man from the bar shouted. Maybe he hoped that some would find that heartfelt, that while he charged and they laid their bodies down for them that would be enough. "But do not fret, do not cower. For your blood will be the rain for the new birth of your kingdom" his voice echoed throughout the metal hall. When no one shared his enthusiasm, the other knights dragged their groups away. 'And your bone will be the steps we walk over when the canons stop firing' the thought ripped through my mind. I turned to see the faces of the forced soldiers; I wonder how many of them will not see the next coming years.