Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
Shandy
Planetoid
- Joined
- Dec 3, 2011
The village of Valens lay amidst a warm between two feuding nations. It was situated on the edge of Almus, a middle-sized country which had largely kept to itself during the course of its history. It had rich earth and was known for its produce exports. They barely even had a military force. Even so, the country to the east, Ira, had engaged in an unfortunate war with Almus. Ira was always reaching out for more land, more property, and it had its eyes on Almus.
Valens was a small village which specialized in farming. There were many families that lived there. When the war started, young men were drafted into the military and trained as best as possible to fight the soldier corps of Ira. They were only haphazard representations of soldiers, with makeshift weapons and weak constitutions. In the end, they didn't stand much of a chance at all. It meant a lot of deaths and a lot of soldiers who never returned home again.
There were few men left in Valens after the first few years of the war. They were all too old or too young, men who couldn't fight, men who couldn't work. They were all but worthless, and unfortunately, they knew that was true. The women tried hard for their part to fill the place of their lost fathers and husbands and uncles. Many worked the fields and the mills and the irrigation channels. They never seemed to stop.
There was one girl, though. There was one who had grown up with no mother, just a sister and a father. Her father had been a warrior, one of few true warriors that Almus had retained from olden days when the country was established. When war fell upon them, he had left his daughters in the care of a kindly woman in Valens. The two sisters never saw him again.
The eldest of the two daughters, Calla, had grown up being cursed by the village because of her father. He had been thought of as useless because he had no skill as a farmer, and his daughters had suffered for it. Calla had been in a lot of fights growing up, protecting her sister, Anemone, mostly. After their father had left, Calla had taken on the burden of the family. She was young at the time, a mere twelve, but she insisted upon working in the fields. She trained herself like she had seen her father do. She readied herself.
The day came when Valens was dragged into the war. It was one of the first villages to be taken by Ira during the war, as it sat just inside the border. They had taken their time to torture the country until they stormed it. In the middle of the night they came, raiding the village. They burned the fields. They torched houses. They killed the young boys and stole the young girls. When the soldiers came to the door of the kindly woman, Calla stood to meet them. She held a rusty old sword and held a makeshift shield. She was only fifteen. They had no trouble beating her down.
The last thing she had seen before she had her lights punched out was her sister being dragged out of the house, screaming and crying for her big sister. She could do nothing.
Nearly five years to the day, Calla was within the borders of Ira. She had traced the soldiers to a band of slave traders; now she was hunting the traders. A young woman now, she bore her own armor and shield, and lastly a broad sword. She wore a cloak to hide all this and her face and hair, as a woman traveling alone was never safe. Still, no matter how prepared, one must always sleep.
In the middle of the night she was come upon by a band of thieves. They caught her sleeping. She woke, of course, and when she tried to fight back they took something large and heavy to her head. She was knocked out cold and strung up inside a prison. It was there that she finally woke up, lacking her armor and her cloak, her shield and her sword. She was only wearing her leather and cloth, shackled to stone, trapped.
She cursed and hung her head, fidgeting inside her shackles, trying to find a way out. She wouldn't meet her fate here, and she wouldn't let them keep her armor. No chance in hell.
Valens was a small village which specialized in farming. There were many families that lived there. When the war started, young men were drafted into the military and trained as best as possible to fight the soldier corps of Ira. They were only haphazard representations of soldiers, with makeshift weapons and weak constitutions. In the end, they didn't stand much of a chance at all. It meant a lot of deaths and a lot of soldiers who never returned home again.
There were few men left in Valens after the first few years of the war. They were all too old or too young, men who couldn't fight, men who couldn't work. They were all but worthless, and unfortunately, they knew that was true. The women tried hard for their part to fill the place of their lost fathers and husbands and uncles. Many worked the fields and the mills and the irrigation channels. They never seemed to stop.
There was one girl, though. There was one who had grown up with no mother, just a sister and a father. Her father had been a warrior, one of few true warriors that Almus had retained from olden days when the country was established. When war fell upon them, he had left his daughters in the care of a kindly woman in Valens. The two sisters never saw him again.
The eldest of the two daughters, Calla, had grown up being cursed by the village because of her father. He had been thought of as useless because he had no skill as a farmer, and his daughters had suffered for it. Calla had been in a lot of fights growing up, protecting her sister, Anemone, mostly. After their father had left, Calla had taken on the burden of the family. She was young at the time, a mere twelve, but she insisted upon working in the fields. She trained herself like she had seen her father do. She readied herself.
The day came when Valens was dragged into the war. It was one of the first villages to be taken by Ira during the war, as it sat just inside the border. They had taken their time to torture the country until they stormed it. In the middle of the night they came, raiding the village. They burned the fields. They torched houses. They killed the young boys and stole the young girls. When the soldiers came to the door of the kindly woman, Calla stood to meet them. She held a rusty old sword and held a makeshift shield. She was only fifteen. They had no trouble beating her down.
The last thing she had seen before she had her lights punched out was her sister being dragged out of the house, screaming and crying for her big sister. She could do nothing.
Nearly five years to the day, Calla was within the borders of Ira. She had traced the soldiers to a band of slave traders; now she was hunting the traders. A young woman now, she bore her own armor and shield, and lastly a broad sword. She wore a cloak to hide all this and her face and hair, as a woman traveling alone was never safe. Still, no matter how prepared, one must always sleep.
In the middle of the night she was come upon by a band of thieves. They caught her sleeping. She woke, of course, and when she tried to fight back they took something large and heavy to her head. She was knocked out cold and strung up inside a prison. It was there that she finally woke up, lacking her armor and her cloak, her shield and her sword. She was only wearing her leather and cloth, shackled to stone, trapped.
She cursed and hung her head, fidgeting inside her shackles, trying to find a way out. She wouldn't meet her fate here, and she wouldn't let them keep her armor. No chance in hell.