Blue Crimson Chapter 2
The second chapter of Blue Crimson, where we see how uncertainty and conflict affects all peoples, especially the innocent.
Blue Crimson Ch. 2: Waning Dusk
The time was midday, two days after the events in Trovis Manor. Word had begun to spread among the populace, and the sparks of war were already beginning to kindle. All along the northern coasts of the province, evidence of conflicts soon to come hung in the air like an ominous cloud above the folk of the towns and settlements. The leaders of numerous towns had begun fortifying and building, some claiming only their desire to protect themselves, others seemingly professing their hunger for the right to rule the province entirely. While the country side remained otherwise quiet, carrion birds had already begun to appear nearer Trovis Manor, for somehow they always knew when they would soon be feasting upon the corpses of the fallen and slain. Along the borders of the southern Rovanni Wood, the town of Kolyat's Stand, named after the former savior of the region, bustled with activity. Merchants shouted from their stands, displaying and flaunting wares of all kinds, many dispicably showpiecing various weapons and armors, intent on making their fortunes from the growing tensions. The taverns were near always open, and many hunters and guards even had gone to the home of their local official.
Across the Tembaren River lay a series of mountains, into which a noble structure was built. Here lay the Keep of Larkiin, the Marshal charged with overseeing the area. Guards, clad in chainmaille and leather armor, stood watch over the approach to the keep, protecting their master, Marshal Larkiin, a middle aged and fair minded wolf of simple origins, from all threats. Within the walls of the stone embedded fort, Marshal Korma Larkiin paced in his council chambers, stopping only to spare a quick glance out of the stained glass windows through which the sunlight poured in. With him and before him, his steward, captain of the guard, and the local smith, adorned in what appeared to be formal wear, though the fabrics were blackened and singed along some of the edges, all sitting around twin tables in the silent room, watching their Marshal and waiting for him to say something. They did not have to wait long.
"Thank you all, my friends, for coming before me this day. I regret that I must dispense with formality and address you plain, as I have received word most troubling." Larkiin said, his tone weighted with concern and uncertainty.
"Not two days prior to this, my steward, Dera, came before me at dinner and presented me with a notice of urgency." As he finished, he placed his muzzle in his paw and covered his eyes in grief. His furry hand ran across his near black colored forehead and skull plates and motioned the steward to speak. Dera was something of a feeble person, not muscular or imposing, but humble with fur matching the Marshal's. He nodded and cleared his throat, speaking in a remorseful and underlyingly serious tone to the group;
"To the Marshial residing over the town of Kolyat's Stand, in respect and manner most agrave, I fear that I must inform you of a force I have come to believe most disturbing. Not one day before writing this message, I was visited by a man who came asking for me to lend my own martial strength to him so that he may effectively and swiftly remove any would-be lords from our country and as de-facto leader, pronounce himself lord of these lands. I fear that he may attempt something that could lead our homes to ruin and families to be slaughtered if given his way. I ask that you take my words under advisement and proceed accordingly. Ancestors watch over you, friend. Respectfully and Equally, Selvas Trovis, Trovis Manor."
The stone room remained hushed for a long moment as those in attendance took in the message and its gravity. While most people knew about the rising tensions, for the Overseer to send this message to them in warning and advisement meant that darkness was fast approaching. The Marshal looked to his companions, seeking any input that could be of use or benefit. The blacksmith spoke first, his fur a mix of grays and silvers giving away his age.
"Sir, I know the people of our town, many I've known since they were pups and their parents walked among us, Ancestors guide them. This is no army of trained soldiers, no gathering of skilled fighters. Our best are hunters, many of them have not yet seen enough years to have the wisdom needed, and others have witnessed too many to be of use in a a true battle. If we are to find salvation, I recommend we begin evacuating those of us who are too young or old to the western coves. There, they may find some shelter amongst the island villagers, away from what is to come." To this, the captain of the guard, a gruff and stern brown wolf showing signs of aging himself immediately protested.
"So we should just let the bulk of our people flee? Tell them to pack up their belongings and bid their sons and daughters goodbye while we have them stand here and pray to be spared a slow death? And what if the enemy simply passes us by, hmm!? What if who ever it is stirring up trouble for the Overseer sets his sights on the ports to the west!? Where do you think our people will be if that happens? I'll tell you: Right in the way of this aggravator's arrows!"
"Enough!" shouted Larkiin, hushing the two. "If our people stay here, and the enemy comes, many will certainly perish. If they leave, they risk only the journey to the coast. The forest itself has protected many from attack, those who do not follow the roads..."
"Sir, are you saying we send the people as refugees through the forests? The time it would take to get to the western shores would... the ones we'd be sending would be defenseless if attacked by who ever has Trovis worried..." Dera replied, his voice more uncertain than the Marshal's.
Dera was correct, of course. The Wood was rough and uneven. If the fleeing people went through there, their progress would be hampered severely. However, despite this fact, the group felt there was little actual choice. Larkiin was concerned for his people's well being greatly, but would not ask that they stay to be slaughtered under any circumstance. He divied out orders, and sent the three to their own tasks as he remained in the council chambers, watching out the window and looking out over the town he was now emptying. The smith went to the people and informed them of what must be done, telling them to take only what was essential and no more, helping mothers and fathers bid sorrowful farewells to their young and setting to work on making as many arrows and repairing as many tools of battle that he could. Dera went about collecting papers and writing letters to the Marshals of the Renn coastline and to the Overseer.
The captain of the guard was ordered to gather any that remained that could fight, and to outfit them and begin training immediately. As he watched his people depart or prepare to take the lives of others, Larkiin could only think about how he wished he could do more for his people, and how the walls of his home may well be stained by his own blood soon. Solemnly, he walked away from the view and through the halls of the mountainside keep, going to the kitchens where the chefs and cooks still remained loyaly, preparing for those that stayed behind the best meals they have ever had. All reserves and stockpiles were to be used, no private stores left untouched. Even the barrels of fine Twin Moonlight Mead was divided amongst the warriors, each given a full flask to drink then and a canteen for the fight. If these souls were going to meet their ancestors, they should at least have the kindness of a final drink of the best before they did so. Now, all that the Marshal could do was to prepare himself and wait...
Back to the Northeast, daylight was beginning to fade over the horizon, lighting the sky with colors of orange and red... a beautiful sight, and poetic end. When night came, so did the striking of the first blow of the conflict. From below the foothills, catapults hurled devastation upon Trovis' manor. Yells and screams of agony and death filled the air as the men of Trovis' legion took up arms and marched downhill, archers raining gleaming shafts down into the basin ahead of pikes and swords. But sword was met by arrow, and scores fell quickly. Scorched rubble and debris scattered and fragmented with each impact as the Manor was bombarded from afar by fire. From the shadows of the assault, Turin watched, a confident smile born of assurance and victory across his lips. By first light the next day, only ruins and bodies remained, the banner of Trovis trampled, torn and burned... so began the Clan Skirmishes.