Most of us long to "Be" but when the path gets too costly, or steep, we take solace in what we "Have." Remove the trappings of what we own, and then what is the sum of us?
They were the survivors, abandoned by the allies who swore to protect, in...
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The following insipid dawn found Renard riding hard, white foam flecking his roan horse's coat, the black forbidding fortress rearing into his sight, squatting like some waiting demon on the arid, saline plains below. As its darkened, unscalable battlements emerged more clearly into view, Renard found himself when greeted with this vision, not so sure that his plan was one of brilliance, but rather one of reckless folly.
He gazed at the somber walls again, his dark eyes seeking and finding many defenders there, arrows poised and he knew he had been seen. So swallowing hard and giving his tired mount one last kick of encouragement he galloped toward the gates, and uncertainty.
The dark steel walls towered high above, dwarfing him as he rode toward the gate's massive portals, scores of eyes above watching his every movement. Renard felt very vulnerable indeed, as he reigned in his exhausted horse some twenty feet from the gate, which still remained tightly shut, and dismounted. Then staring up at the defenders on the walls, doing his best to mask any trepidation he felt, Renard summoned all his courage as he called out to those who watched him critically from high above.
"I am Renard son of Stephan, and I have come in peace, bearing an important message for your leader."
Half expecting at any moment to feel the answering barb of an arrow in his flesh, or worse still the thought of the mounted flame cannon, its evil blackened snout already angling his way. Its hot kerosene breath like that of some mythical dragon's maw. His statement of intention was met with austere silence from the watchers on high, only the faintest howl of the lifting breeze permeated the tense scene. Renard's nerves were razor edged as he held his hands high in a display of surrender, he hardly dare draw breath, and wondered at the sanity of his plan. Still he had no other choice considering recent events, he had to take his chances.
After agonizing moments came the grating sound of the gate being winched partly open, chain clanking over steel in a metallic scream of protest. Accompanied by a contingent of ten armed soldiers who swiftly converged on the lone man. One prominent amongst them wearing engraved metal plate and full silver chain mail, divesting him of his weapons with brutal efficiency. Still Renard did not dare move lest he be struck down. The same man, who appeared to be the commander then addressed him, the man's voice grim, his short sword drawn and threatening.
"Come peacefully then, if you so much as look like trying anything, you're a dead man."
At this Renard felt the encouraging prod of a spear tip rending his heavy brown woolen shirt, piercing the skin beneath, the blood running, tickling his skin under his clothes as he was urged forward into the compound.
Under this aggressive escort he entered the formidable city fort, not at all sure if he had indeed made the right decision, hearing the ominous thud of the immense gates shut behind him, effectively imprisoning him, and he was not at all comfortable with the idea. Renard was conducted in silence toward the fort's central plaza, the hub of the community. A place lined with numerous, bustling, workshops which produced every essential item the city could require.
