Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story


Woe would come once and for all for the lonely folkd who wished to stay that way.

Shattered by a war started far from them which ravaged their homes, folk and lands, they would be forced to pay the cost.

In blood, goods and food, the tribute crippled. They could not return to how they were or approach a comfort which would not see them toil each hour and day. They would know no rest or respite as they had once known, or that their forebears once had and turned to making music and carvings to adorn the homes they built with pride.

Now such marks could not be held or worn, symbols of a pride and life they were nevermore to know. For they were conquered.

And so too would they see their lands diminished, while tribute remained the same. Strangers entitled to a land by decree of those who had never set eyes upon it, but would demand it and take it none the less.

So is the slow death of life. Where one cannot raise young by means or conscience. For this would be their hardship to inherit, and shame would be their cloak, for they were of that land brought to war. It matters not if the kings made war or defended their folk or fields.

What matters is now, the symbols and tongue of that land are shameful and to be wiped out, and all because blood is more important than victory. Some which to raise it, some wish to spill it, but death will come for them all the same.

For those who would enforce such shame lay the seeds of their own destruction. What a pity they could not be destroyed first.

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