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(P&P) The Aristocrat Falls
As far as his wizened old eye could see, the once-green fields burned. He stood, here at his plantation, his family home already having been burned to rubble by the hordes which now approached, with a knowing smile on his face.
The mountain had been considered unassailable. So many of these marauders had thrown themselves to their deaths trying to claim what these people - his people - had built here. Sure, the brigands had numbers, but the mountain folk were skilled and artful at defending one another's lands. And he had grown arrogant and haughty as a result. He spat in the pagan leaders' faces at negotiating tables and in other public places, and dared them to fight him. And fought him they did. In personal combat, he bested several, which served to embolden both him and the rest of the mountain people, and they all rattled their sabers at the horde, assured of their skill at defense and the strength of the mountain.
How it had gone so wrong so quickly. They relaxed for what seemed like an instant for a simple celebration, Mother's Day. Oh, what a terrible indulgence it had been, for the pagans knew of the Roman holidays, and they plotted their revenge against the arrogant Senator who dared mock them and humiliate their great warriors.
When he returned home from a town not far off, the hordes were upon him. His great mansion was in ruin, his family killed by these cretins, and they were marching toward his other estates, setting fire to the ground as they marched, in seemingly endless number.
Now they were approaching this spot, the one his brother had given his life to build, the one he chose now to give his life to defend. There were a handful of the mountain people with him, the few that had not been beset by the brigands already, in their zeal to ensure that no help would be available for the old senator. They would not be enough, and he knew this. But they would die gloriously, and the horde would remember each of their names before this battle was done.
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The sun is setting in the west as the aristocrat wipes his blade on his once-white tunic, now tattered, dirty, and nearly completely red from the blood of pagans that now lay scattered all over his doorstep. Yes, they took his mansion, and they took three other field houses, but not before he set fire to them himself and left the brigands to stamp out the flames on their shiny new prizes.
Here, though, his ragged troops remain, exhausted, but still alive, and still ready to take on more of the marauders. The end was coming, but it would not be this day. This day, there could be a little wine, and a little song, to celebrate one more victory for the mountain people.
As far as his wizened old eye could see, the once-green fields burned. He stood, here at his plantation, his family home already having been burned to rubble by the hordes which now approached, with a knowing smile on his face.
The mountain had been considered unassailable. So many of these marauders had thrown themselves to their deaths trying to claim what these people - his people - had built here. Sure, the brigands had numbers, but the mountain folk were skilled and artful at defending one another's lands. And he had grown arrogant and haughty as a result. He spat in the pagan leaders' faces at negotiating tables and in other public places, and dared them to fight him. And fought him they did. In personal combat, he bested several, which served to embolden both him and the rest of the mountain people, and they all rattled their sabers at the horde, assured of their skill at defense and the strength of the mountain.
How it had gone so wrong so quickly. They relaxed for what seemed like an instant for a simple celebration, Mother's Day. Oh, what a terrible indulgence it had been, for the pagans knew of the Roman holidays, and they plotted their revenge against the arrogant Senator who dared mock them and humiliate their great warriors.
When he returned home from a town not far off, the hordes were upon him. His great mansion was in ruin, his family killed by these cretins, and they were marching toward his other estates, setting fire to the ground as they marched, in seemingly endless number.
Now they were approaching this spot, the one his brother had given his life to build, the one he chose now to give his life to defend. There were a handful of the mountain people with him, the few that had not been beset by the brigands already, in their zeal to ensure that no help would be available for the old senator. They would not be enough, and he knew this. But they would die gloriously, and the horde would remember each of their names before this battle was done.
-------------------------------
The sun is setting in the west as the aristocrat wipes his blade on his once-white tunic, now tattered, dirty, and nearly completely red from the blood of pagans that now lay scattered all over his doorstep. Yes, they took his mansion, and they took three other field houses, but not before he set fire to them himself and left the brigands to stamp out the flames on their shiny new prizes.
Here, though, his ragged troops remain, exhausted, but still alive, and still ready to take on more of the marauders. The end was coming, but it would not be this day. This day, there could be a little wine, and a little song, to celebrate one more victory for the mountain people.
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