EndlesslyThe stars are falling from the sky and I do not know why; are they escaping the blackest void that has spread across the heavens or are they tired of shedding tears to the world below that is now full of misery? The sight of their departure is beautiful nonetheless and when I shift my gaze away from the heavens and look back at you, I can see how the starlight is reflected from your glazed eyes, your body motionless as you wait for the sign that makes our bodies move like puppets controlled by strings. It seems like tonight you do not remember our earliest memories; I can see it from the way you are looking at me. No matter how many times I experience it, it always feels like a stab to the heart. I do not know if it is better this way, I am being torn apart anyway. Either we both retain our memories and are forced to face each other in the battlefield or one of us does not remember the other and thus only sees an enemy that has to be defeated while the other one is suffering from an unbearable heartache no one should ever have to endure. It never gets easier. But this is how our lives are, this is how it has been for a thousand years. Everything around us is dead and still, we remain. The soil under our feet has been lifeless for centuries, completely dry and cracked and nothing can grow from it. There are a few dead trees standing, like dry corpses, their branches like the fingers of the deceased as they desperately reach for the uncaring sky, begging for something, a rain or a sunshine, that would rejuvenate their withered carcasses. But the heavens ignore their silent cries. The trees here are the last ones remaining of a beautiful landscape before the war destroyed and butchered it all. Now they are nothing more but mementos of the days when everything was well. Winds play with their branches, twisting them, clinging onto them like mischievous spirits, not letting their dried-up corpses rest in peace. Tonight, however, the winds are in a different kind of mood. They are blowing across the vast field of nothingness in an ominous way and I can hear them whispering. They want blood, they want misery. I do not know what kind of sadistic glee they will gain from what is about to transpire here, but they will get what they wished for. With the vile winds came legions of soldiers of the past, groups of people I have seen for the past thousand years, but whom I cannot remember anymore. In my eyes, their bodies are translucent and their facial features have been smudged like ink stains. I simply do not recognize who they are anymore. Perhaps that is how they perceive me, maybe I am like a ghost to them, too. We are all supposed to be dead and gone now, and yet, here we are. Legions of ghostly soldiers have gathered behind your back and without looking, I know that I have comrades behind my back as well. We are all standing here, silent and motionless, waiting for the sign. Soon it comes: a blast of an ancient horn rushes throughout the battlefield, reaching every corner. The battle will begin and troops of soldiers who have spent a thousand years fighting the same war over and over again are engaging in a conflict once more, and some of them have forgotten why they even are here and what they are fighting for. But I know that losing your memories completely will not give you salvation. A luxury like a free will is something we do not have. Countless times I have raised my weapon against you and it just keeps getting harder – except on those days when I do not remember you. I do not want to do this anymore! But no matter how much I have begged or demanded this to end, it never does. My body is moving on its own, swinging my weapon, causing pain to you and every time my blade cuts your flesh, it feels like I just got cut, too. I never wanted to be part of this war and neither did you. The ancient mad lords forced us into this; they called it a holy war that would purify the land. But which side was the wicked and which was the righteous? There was no answer to that to begin with, the lords just wanted an excuse to steal the lands from the other one. This never was a holy war; it was a cursed one. We are still here, in the middle of a senseless battle, and where are the lords now? Have they died or just abandoned us, forcing us to repeat the war endlessly, unable to break out of this cycle? Just like our memories, the battlefield itself is flickering. It is unstable, a lot like our minds, and is unable to stay in its current state. Like ripples in time, flashes of various shapes of the field are echoing from the past, not sure which form to take. We can see past battles through the flickering and we are dancing macabrely together with the ghosts of our former selves. We will keep fighting even when our bodies start to break down. When do we stop? I do not know. Maybe when all of it is too much for a mortal mind to take and we get consumed by madness. Maybe when the land tries to reset itself and as a byproduct, so do we. Or maybe when whoever is pulling the strings gets tired. It definitely is not death that grants us a moment of rest and soothes our restless and rotten souls. Ah, how I see death as a friend… However, I have come to the conclusion that the world will die before we do.trophyA Week Ago<i>Shhrckk shhrckk</i> The pestle ground softly against the mortar as Nanala worked, moving her mouth with great precision as she ground herbs for a poultice. Ordinarily, an herbalist would use their front paws to get the job done, but Nanala wasn’t an ordinary herbalist - she was born without front legs. It grew late. Candlelight licked the walls. The bunny-cat mix glanced over her shoulder at the hulk of a man taking up most of her floor. No change. Satisfied with her work, Nanala wrapped the poultice in a cloth and gathered the ends carefully in her mouth, bouncing over to the strange man. He was a dog, huge - maybe four feet tall, Nanala guessed, but she’d have to see him standing - with creamy fur and brown markings. He was covered in terrible wounds, not fresh, but certainly not healed, that had been poorly dressed to begin with; those dressings now wet and muddy. She didn’t recognize him. Nobody was a stranger in Alden. The little port town was on a peninsula, two mountains and a dangerous pass in and out closing them off from the rest of the continent. Nobody came in that way. Instead, they sailed in through the docks and never stayed for long. Yet, here he was - a stranger, half-dead in their little town. Yes, he was going to have a long road to recovery. But, recover he shall - Nanala’d make sure of that. Adjusting the bag resting on her chest with her nubs, Nanala pulled out a stick, the end tipped with cotton. She dabbed her poultice with it and set to work, starting with the large, x-shaped cut deep in the man’s shoulder. <i>A week ago, Goliath lunged forward, thrusting himself between The King and his would-be assassin. The attacker’s sword lodged deep into Goliath’s shoulder, the faithful knight’s staff the only thing preventing the blade from digging any deeper. The castle was under siege, revolutionaries looking for someone to blame out for blood. But, Goliath swore they would spill every drop of his before anyone touched the royal family. Finding an opening, Goliath shoved the attacker back. Sword now free, they slashed wildly, creating a second cut on Goliath’s shoulder.</i> The first wound cleaned and dressed, Nanala hopped around the stranger, inspecting the wound deep in his side. It didn’t look good. This was the one she was worried about most. <i>A week ago, Goliath hurried across the marble tile. There was no time to lose. He had to escort The King and Queen to safety. He heard The King tumble to the ground; the thump was audible. Pivoting on his heel, Goliath dove in front of The King, an attacker stabbing deep into the knight’s side.</i> Next, there was a long cut across the stranger’s rump. Nanala had to sit up on her haunches to reach it. <i>A week ago, Goliath thumped The King and Queen’s heels with his snout as he ran, roughly shoving them forward. He heard the blade pierce the air before he felt it slash his pelt, the knife only stopping when it lodged in the stone wall ahead of them. Nosing the royal family roughly up the stairs, Goliath yanked the knife from the stone, chucking it at the rope holding up the portcullis. There was a crash as the gate closed behind them.</i> Most strikingly, there was a large cut across the stranger’s snout, ending in a jagged line down his cheek. <i>A week ago, The Queen lunged at a man who’d grabbed her husband, Goliath yanking her out of harm’s way just in time for a gryphon claw to tear across his muzzle. Goliath jerked his head back as his blood splattered against the marble floor. His attacker, a trusted knight and someone Goliath had only just this morning considered a friend, pulled a sword from his belt. He hit Goliath’s staff hard enough to nearly snap it in two. There was a dull thump as an arrow lodged itself into Goliath’s bandolier. Snatching the arrow, Goliath tore it from the leather and lodged it deep into his enemy’s eye.</i> Nanala adjusted the tool in her mouth. “…Where did you come from?” She turned to the baby she’d found with him - long eared, blue and brown, with oversized wings and downy feathers - now comfortably asleep on one of her pillows, “and why doesn’t your ‘friend’ look anything like you?” <i>A week ago, the stone walls spit dust each time the door ground against them. “Go! I’ll hold them off! Get the prince to safety!” Goliath braced himself for the worst - they had minutes before that door broke, if they were lucky. He would buy them every extra second he could. “No…” Goliath rose to full height and slowly looked back over his shoulder. He found a conviction in The King’s eyes, a terrible finality as he stared straight ahead at his personal guard, most trusted knight, and oldest friend. In all their years, Goliath had never seen him like that. “Even if we snuck out, we wouldn’t get more than five feet from the castle.” “Sir-” <b>“We’re</b> what they want, Goliath. Take our son and get out of here. …You’re the only chance he has.” Goliath looked to The Queen. “…Please talk some sense into him.” But, The Queen stared out the window, her gaze fixed on nothing. Her snout wrinkled as she grimaced. “No sense in all of us dying…”</i> Her mystery patient taken care of, Nanala put her lathelwirt away with careful precision, adjusting her bag with her leg-stumps. Hours ago, she was picking it in the rain - rain was the best time to pick lathelwirt; anyone with sense knew that - and the leaves were still wet. But, she hadn’t managed to collect that many before… <i>Hours ago, Nanala’s ears perked at the sound of crying echoing through the forest. A baby. It was unmistakable. Shouldering aside bushes, she found a hulking body collapsed into the mud; curled protectively around something. Nanala could only be stunned over what, she could only assume, was a dead body for moments. The baby’s cries were louder and more distinct than ever. Hurrying to the other side of the body, she found the baby - rain-soaked, shivering, and sobbing. There was a blue, wing-shaped crest in the middle of his forehead. Her ears flicked back sympathetically. “I’m sure you’re miserable.” She pulled the baby into her cloak, shielding him from the rain, and the body beside them shifted. Whoever he was, he was, somehow, alive.</i> Hours later, Nanala eyed the strangers carefully as her kettle boiled. She decided she’d stay awake through the night to keep an eye on them. And a long, sleepless night like this one called for tea.trophy