dinmor

‘Four years ago, we were beaten,’ began the old man as he addressed the crowd before him, ‘our homes were lost, our wives stolen, our children’s heads thrown at the walls as they came crashing down.
‘Now we are a notable force: one that simply cannot be ignored. We began with a number of five men; now we are in the hundreds! People in the Breelands, in the lands to the South, the North... we are a people.’

‘Who are you?’ asked the caravan-guard, his face bloodied, his bare chest bruised.

‘A friend,’ noted the man in black robes, his lips creeping into a discomforting smile, ‘this is what friends do, is it not?’

‘Leave now, for you do not know of me and what I am capable of,’ spat the large man as he brought his goods horse to a halt.

‘I know you very well,’ noted the thin man atop his horse, ‘you are Guthmor, a caravan guard... and a bandit,’

The world darkened and the trees became silver silhouettes in the snow. There was nothing, save a single blue flame in the middle of the field; no people were there, no animals. Nothing but the remnants of long-dead trees and snow was present.
‘You know of his suffering,’ a voice spoke from the world, the very earth beneath him, ‘yet you continue to cause him pain?

Greyleaf let out a muffled cry, accompanied by violent choking and the sound of sticks clashing.
‘Beat him!’ the large man laughed sadistically, ‘break every bone! Crack his ribs and smash his limbs!’

Thistlemead rose from his sleeping place in the middle of the field. He could still hear the cries of Greyleaf, whom had been tied to a pole in the exact middle of the camp. ‘He will get us all killed,’ he muttered as he came upon the group that had gathered around one of three campfires, ‘a merchant will be strolling down the road; he’ll hear screaming and call for the militia.’

‘You know why you are here, Greyleaf,’ said the leader of the three other men, his voice cold and terrifying, though it carried a strange unwelcomed warmth, ‘tell us the names of those you have been speaking to so boldly.’