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That day began like every other, chilling tendrils of morning's cold grey mists enveloping as I awoke. The dank air washed a pallor over the bleak landscape, and as well, it seemed, to the haggard faces of the people. Yet with the mist's icy touch also came my destiny, no more inescapable nor less relentless.
At first it was little more then a barely decernable speck in the distance, a dark smudge on the horizon so insignificant as to perhaps be no more than a trick of the grey morning light. The people went on about their business, as always, fearful and alone.
By noon the smudge had become a line, still reaching back to the horizon. The people looked up occasionally, exchanged quizzical glances and went on about their chores. After so much suffering, curiosity was beyond them, surely this new thing would just bring more sadness.
Reluctantly the enveloping haze relented and the character of what approached was no longer obscured, the people stopped and finally took a moment to take in the foreboding sight, a long column of men in haphazard rows, a strange unity to their movements. In the vanguard marched a solitary bedraggled figure, gaunt and stooped, he leaned on a five yard staff with red and black banner unfurled. Behind their lone standard bearer, many wizen old men bearing heavy loads were followed by the younger, stronger ones shouldering even larger burdens. With slow, heavy steps they approach the village. Backs bent under the weight, jaws set with unerring determination, the haze shied away from the fire in their eyes. As the column drew closer the ground began reverberating with their footfalls, so deep and strong you could feel in in your breast. So spoke the prophesies, Preceded by thunder, they will come.
Amongst the people the murmuring began, some trembled, some cried, but most stood in silent disbelief and watched as the long line of men drew nigh. This was legend, the stuff of fairy tales and stories told to comfort frightened children, but today the myths breathed and the mists were no match for the awesome strength of living legend. A young urchin scrambled along the dirt path leading through the center of the hovels, her shrill voice calling words no one else dared speak; 'tis The Horde, truly them, truly, The Horde cometh!
The Horde cometh. Words of fable and myth, spoken by a frail waif. Simple words, they now brought strong men to their knees, tears streaking the dirt on their faces. It could not be true, there was no salvation, there was no end to the suffering, there was no Horde. Yet, here they were, the very earth itself trembling under their heavy steps, the woes of a thousand thousand thousand carried with unyielding spirit on strong backs.
No one understood The Horde, they were said to be stalwart heroes, volunteers all, bearing the burdens of the world on their shoulders. They came out of nowhere and left without word, hauling away the pains of those they encountered.
At first it was little more then a barely decernable speck in the distance, a dark smudge on the horizon so insignificant as to perhaps be no more than a trick of the grey morning light. The people went on about their business, as always, fearful and alone.
By noon the smudge had become a line, still reaching back to the horizon. The people looked up occasionally, exchanged quizzical glances and went on about their chores. After so much suffering, curiosity was beyond them, surely this new thing would just bring more sadness.
Reluctantly the enveloping haze relented and the character of what approached was no longer obscured, the people stopped and finally took a moment to take in the foreboding sight, a long column of men in haphazard rows, a strange unity to their movements. In the vanguard marched a solitary bedraggled figure, gaunt and stooped, he leaned on a five yard staff with red and black banner unfurled. Behind their lone standard bearer, many wizen old men bearing heavy loads were followed by the younger, stronger ones shouldering even larger burdens. With slow, heavy steps they approach the village. Backs bent under the weight, jaws set with unerring determination, the haze shied away from the fire in their eyes. As the column drew closer the ground began reverberating with their footfalls, so deep and strong you could feel in in your breast. So spoke the prophesies, Preceded by thunder, they will come.
Amongst the people the murmuring began, some trembled, some cried, but most stood in silent disbelief and watched as the long line of men drew nigh. This was legend, the stuff of fairy tales and stories told to comfort frightened children, but today the myths breathed and the mists were no match for the awesome strength of living legend. A young urchin scrambled along the dirt path leading through the center of the hovels, her shrill voice calling words no one else dared speak; 'tis The Horde, truly them, truly, The Horde cometh!
The Horde cometh. Words of fable and myth, spoken by a frail waif. Simple words, they now brought strong men to their knees, tears streaking the dirt on their faces. It could not be true, there was no salvation, there was no end to the suffering, there was no Horde. Yet, here they were, the very earth itself trembling under their heavy steps, the woes of a thousand thousand thousand carried with unyielding spirit on strong backs.
No one understood The Horde, they were said to be stalwart heroes, volunteers all, bearing the burdens of the world on their shoulders. They came out of nowhere and left without word, hauling away the pains of those they encountered.
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