The Butcher of Brost

The warmth of the sun returns as the winter ceases. Seeds are sewn anew along the western front. Faris, my beloved. I am not one to write often, however I must apologize for the last year since I was transferred. Farmers seem more confident this year compared to last, still remembering the raids that had brought the slaughter of the previous regiments had not been repeated. Though, when the visage of marred green flesh appears beyond, the fear still strikes into the heart of men. It was this fear that had stopped my pen. A dread that may return, but so too should this tale be retold.

Trademeet had been struck by the same enemy they said. My fellow armsman suggest that maybe the enemy doesn’t care about Brost, however I am unsure. Always eyeing our walls with an abyssal lust. The officer was the only one not visibly shaken by the call to sound the horn last year. He was one of the few who returned from prior encounters. However, I could sense he felt something was different this time. He was slower to pick up his sword than usual, and even in the spring air he lacked the spring in his step. He was no knife-eared hunter, but he certainly hadn’t aged that fast the past winter.

One of the first to arrive from the east was a man I had seen in passing. His plate armor gleamed with pristine craftsmanship, an extravagant purple accented with blue along the arms with his cape in the same deep color. We muttered curses under our breath irregardless of presentation of the warrior on horseback. No acknowledgement of his arrival was granted to him. Rumor spread quickly about the death at the Ranger's Rest, even to Wayside where the man had been staying frequently. Surprisingly, he was the first to actually give an order.

“Form behind the door, I’ll stand ahead as we funnel them in between the walls.”

Unconvincingly, he fumbled with his shield as he raised it to his arm from the side of his steed. The armsman next to me called some for of question as the sight, another pointed claiming the rumors were true. Looking closer as to understand what my friend had said, I realized what brought upon this poor display. He was strapping his shield to his left arm. The rumors were true indeed, as from behind his left flank I saw his arm end in a white rounded stub. He didn’t even hide or disguise his condition, and once the shield was on he casually checked it’s weight and feel as if.

The first of the goblinkin came into view, a massive front of the short stature menaces. Yet, what had begin to cause our fear to grow was the larger of their forces. The large strides that overtook the goblinoids pounded the ground in a war drums beat. Trolls and Orges that could cleave the heads off men like myself in a single well aimed swing.

Yet, a flash of light from a gleaming sword revealed itself, followed by procession of hoof beats overcoming such an overture. We could move our muscles, refusing to let fear overtake us when we saw the visage of a warrior we mocked charge in. No, the visage of a knight would be more accurate. The weight of West Haven was taken up as burden upon several warriors, but this would not be the first or last charge that rallied the soldiers headed by the courageous figure. He could rend giants asunder, and fought back other horrors that took advantage in our time of need. Yet somehow after each, even wounded himself he would come to use soldiers and giving renewed vitality.

He would come often for some time after. Each time the horn called he would arrive, his shield quicker to be strapped that last, just as we more confidently responded. When no defense was to be mounted, he would go past the safety of our keep. When he returned, his purple armor turned red and a sack, after asking the officer for it said, that weighed two men alone was brought to be paid for. A year has passed, and most of us still serve together thankfully. Those who come quickly learn that when he walks by, all we do now is nod as he passes, with a single greeting.

“Butcher.”

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