Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

In the cold dark place.

It crept in on a quiet morning, without a word or whisper to betray itself. The sleepers never knew of its presence, dreaming dreams of regret, lust or hopes for what might be if only..

It was watched from upon the walls, guards silent as they stared out. Their words hushed by its presence, their anxious cold set aside to escape where they were for but a moment to watch.

A wonder of the world, a horror to the unprepared, it crept upon that quiet morning before the sun would hint at its coming.

In the flames upon the walls it made itself known, reflecting like stars in the heavens as the clouds clear. But the clouds were thick, and a fog had slowly made its way toward them.

Not even a wind would brush past the bare branches of trees, nor excite the flame of a candle if it stood out in the open.

So it crept upon that quiet morning, the snow falling from the heavens above. What some had certainly prayed for to the Gods or what spirits might linger in this place, but none of those prayers were from within the city walls.

The guards took their moment to stand and look up at the snow slowly dancing above their heads. And that is when the first arrows struck. Guards unaware and unable to see what lingered just out of the light of their torches, an army awaiting its chance through demand or opportunity.

Opportunity granted by the silent snow, a chance taken by the spirit of a conqueror. The gates were charged as the arrows were let loose. For the blood of conquest is never slowed or frozen by the ice and snow, but the cold will work hand in hand with fear to slaughter the shocked and fearful.

It crept upon that quiet morning, a snow of pure white soon to be made red. And without a word or whisper to speak against it, the conqueror’s flag waved above a city to greet the dawn.


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