c4

Thistlemead tugged at the reigns before him, bringing his horse to a halt, ‘Thistlemead!’ he cried out, noting his own presence. Three men behind raised flags of red, waving them.
A single fire took to the sky in response.

‘They are lost and leaderless,’ began the old man in a serious yet quiet tone, ‘their lands have been torn asunder by the passing of time.’

‘You tell me this,’ Thistlemead spat, ‘when I care very little? Should every single one of them starve, it would not affect me.’

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.’

Chapter Four: On Graves

Laughter, is indeed a strangeness in itself, and oddity we can not truly contemplate. At times, laughter is a sign of happiness, and joy, at others - It is to respond, precipitate, to a joke, a crudeness of sorts, then at other times it is a thing that appears when once is strongly influenced by his mug at a tavern.