Chapter 37: Chapter 37: Smallfolk IV/ Dorne VI
Mid 157 AC
(Warning: the story starts to get darker and a tad graphic from this point on. If that is not your cup of tea, skip ahead to the Dorne portion.)
Kurtz rose with the sun, his body feeling its sixty years as he slowly swung his feet onto the earthen floor, the compacted soil feeling cool to his touch. His quiet cottage and Highmarsh goose feather bed held only himself, his dear Rosie having passed away from a spring fever a few years prior. Their children and grandchildren had left for greener pastures a few years before that, settling in Lowhill. Weavers now, he believed, and his eldest son visited on occasion, bringing spare coin to help when his own supply began to run low. He appreciated it, even if his tasks were not as demanding on his body as they had once been. He would have preferred if they had stayed and taken to caring for him, but he'd been too stubborn to leave with them for Lowhill, and they'd been too insistent on leaving for him to force them to stay. Some of his neighbors thought it wrong, for family to leave an old man by himself, but he wasn't a cripple for Seven's sake. He had taken care of himself for decades already, what was a few more?
Groaning as he dressed, he wondered if today he could sleep in, knowing full well he hadn't since before his tenth nameday. The last of the wheat had been harvested and stored away, and while it was now time for the corn to face the same, it wasn't as if he needed to oversee it. The days where he would help his father and brothers out in the fields were a distant memory, and good thing too, for they had been a harsher time for them all. Now, though? Their village prospered, despite bearing no name, and as he trudged to his cooking pit to restart the fire, he was glad to have lived to see such times. If only his brothers had managed to do the same.
His morning meal, much like his life these days, was hearty but rather simple; some eggs from his small chicken coop behind his cottage, a small loaf of bread he had bought yesterday from the baker, and one of the last apples from his old apple tree that hadn't been turned to cider. By now, with his fast broken, he grabbed his woolen overcoat and pants, as the mornings were chillier than before, but not yet enough to be considered outright cold. In the village, he saw others rising as well, their wives having risen even earlier than he to start their own cooking fires.
Most men and their sons departed their homes, bidding others good morning and setting out for the closest fields to prepare for the latest round of harvests. A few began work on other tasks, such as a pair of young men using a mule to pull the local refuse wagon, moving to each house for whatever scraps could not be eaten. It had been a passing merchant's idea that upon being sorted, these fresh scraps would be given to the small herd of hogs the village kept, and the rest mixed into the great communal manure pile for their gardens and smaller fields. Tossing his eggshells into the passing cart, Kurtz strode towards the center of the village, stopping along the way to chat with whoever he could strike up a conversation.
Smallfolk gossip was as varied as it was inconsistent. Some days it was about the weather, or tales of storms that had been experienced in years gone by. Other days, it was of successful or fruitless hunts, certain days of work being harder than usual, news of neighboring kin, births, deaths, and whatever illnesses were afflicting one or another. Nowadays, many rumors focused on their Lord Wytch, and how his rule had changed so much for them. The great road that brought trade to a village that had never seen any, the greater variety of foods planted, the newfangled plows and the like, even the influx of new smallfolk from smaller, more isolated villages that did not see this same prosperity. News traveled fast upon this road, after all, and with news came more changes for the village, which Kurtz looked forward to, despite his initial misgivings.
He had, however, heard the most recent rumors of course. War with Dorne was upon the land, a full war that their young Targaryen king had started to bring them into the fold. Bah! As if those sandy devils were any good for the kingdoms. Other than spices and fruits, what did they bring to the table other than devious trickery, licentious bickering, and amoral lust? Better the king did so just so the raids would stop, not that any had made it this far into the Stormlands proper in ages. The one from a few years prior had stuck to the poor Marches further south, but that had been dealt with by their Lord Wytch as well as could be expected. Besides, it couldn't have been that serious, as none of their young men had been called to the levies yet.
Now, though, rumors from the merchants passing through a few days ago put things differently. The Dornish had crossed into the Stormlands, so they said, but none knew if they had been defeated yet or were still roaming around. As village elder and a cautious man, Kurtz had managed to ensure the stronghouse in the center of the village was fully stocked, its thick stone walls and ceramic roof tiles meaning that hopefully none could set it aflame. Though it was unlikely they would reach this far, he passed into the stout building, his cursory inspection satisfying his worry. The large warning horns were clean, the great cellar beneath stocked enough to feed the village for at least a week, and the walls bore no cracks in them. Most of the other smallfolk had thought him paranoid in journeying all the way to Lowhill a year before and petitioning for this large hut to be made. Bah! These youngsters thought war was a distant concept, but he'd marched with fellow Stormlanders in the Dance all the way up to the Kingsroad and had even seen the previous Lord Baratheon during the march! They could be called at any time to fight for Lord Wytch if the need arose, and it paid to be ready.
Outside the hut, he heard a few raised voices, and a low rumble. Emerging, he found a group of riders, perhaps half score, riding down the main road towards their village. They were in no hurry, and although their horses seemed rather lithe, they bore the sigils of a Marcher lord to the south. Dromedarien? No, Dondarrion, that was it! Purple lightning bolts on a black coat with white stars, though the flags they carried had seen better days. Some were a bit tattered, and more than one of the sigils upon the armors of the riders was a bit filthy. Then again, who knows how long they had been riding?
As village elder, though he held no claims to 'running' the village in which he'd been born, Kurtz kept a respectful distance as the riders came to a stop before their hut. They seemed wary, looking this way and that, and he wondered why. There weren't any Dornish here, hells he wasn't even sure he'd seen a Dornishman that wasn't part of a merchant caravan, and while more common than before thanks to the roads, they weren't exactly coming through all that often.
"Greetings, milord," he said, slowly approaching the lead rider. "Welcome ta our most 'umble village."
"Greetings, whitebeard, it is good so see the village up and at work so early this fine morning," the man said, his accent rather peculiar.
His beard wasn't that white yet. "Have you need of rest, milord? Our inn is empty and has good food for a weary rider." They looked as if they'd been riding all night, hence his offer.
"Nay, we have eaten already, good man, and are well rested from the previous evening," the rider replied, motioning to some of his men. They dismounted without a word and moved to the stronghouse with clear purpose. "Have you or any of your fellows seen any sign of Dornish parties in the area?"
Again, that accent of his, it was a bit thick. Marcher accents were a bit odd, apparently taking on some of the supposed Dornish inflection, so he'd heard from merchants, but it wasn't as if any Marcher would admit to that. He'd heard most Dornish accents were unthinkably impossible to understand from more easterly merchants. "No, milord, other than caravans passing through every moon or so. Haven't had any this moon, but we've heard o' the war breaking out from passerby."
"Yes, yes, terrible business, but it is our business to worry about it, so fret not, my good man," the rider said, his covered face muffling his voice a bit. Strange, to have his face covered, when the heat of the day would not arrive for many hours yet. "Is your stronghouse in good order?"
"Aye, milord, good and sturdy. Horns were cleared o' cobwebs yesterday, and the larders be full."
As he said that, another group of riders appeared over the horizon, their speed bringing them swiftly down to the others, bringing them to mayhaps twoscore.
"Dornish parties have been sighted, ser," the new leader said, sounding almost alarmed, but not quite. "They are drawing nearer, I believe they are following the road."
"Raiders?" the first replied.
"Aye, they are on horse, and move quickly."
"You men, sound the horns, and prepare for battle!" he cried, his dismounted men quickly responding as they closed the great doors behind them. The long, deep wail sounded over their small valley, and from around the village, cries or alarm and fear arose as the morning sun continued its path across the sky.
Kurtz felt a shiver of fear run through him. "Milord, how many raiders come?"
"We don't know how many are out there, but it is best if you all gather here first, before the doors are closed," he said. "My men and I will stay here, so as to ensure they do not ride upon your fleeing fellows before they can gather for safety."
"Many thanks, milord," Kurtz said with a bow as the village sprang to life. All around, women and children rushed to the stronghold, carrying what they could as they gathered in the village center. Panic was upon their faces, and many a child was whimpering in fear or confusion, their mothers attempting to soothe their worries even as they held back worries whispers. Men and their sons arrived soon after, panting but alive, reuniting with their families around the crowded doors, waiting for them to open. The whole village was here, surely, yet why were the doors not opening?
"Milord, best we get inside the stronghouse, then, this should be all of us," Kurtz said
Confusingly, the rider to shook his head. "no, my good man, you're right where you need to be."
"We need to be in the stronghouse! The Dornish are coming this way, we've no means of repelling them other than sitting within these walls."
"That is exactly what I was counting on," the rider replied, producing a horn of his own. With it, he gave a long, high pitched wail, and on the horizon, in moments, a great line of horses appeared, their riders bearing many a banner in the soft morning breeze.
"What are you doing! We need to get to safety, it is the only way we'll survive this!" Kurtz cried.
"Best you don't, since you won't," the man said, with him and every rider removing their coverings and unsheathing their swords to the shock and horror of the crowd. Swarthy skin, dark eyes, and cruel smiles that sent spikes of fear into the hearts of everyone gathered as swords, spears and axes were drawn. Dornishmen!
Kurtz saw the flash of a sword just as the screams began, and thunder of distant hooves began to draw nearer to their village as his vision faded.
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Gods, his head hurt. Why did his head hurt so much? Blearily opening his eyes, in one all he could see was red, and with a soft wheeze, Kurtz reached up to wipe the blood from his vision. Wait, blood? Why was he covered in blood? Reaching higher, he found a deep gash upon his head, his fingers feeling crusted blood around its edges, but some still slowly flowed down his dirty face.
Looking around, all he could see was carnage, the kind he had not seen since the last battle of the Dance itself. The dirt off the main road had been churned to mud, not by rain, but by the blood of those who lay in its embrace. Men, their bodies punctured with arrows or opened with sword strikes, spears, or axes, lay where they had fallen. Some lay upon their children, died having tried to protect them from these Dornish demons. Others, with their wives in their embrace, both still and oozing what little blood remained from their pale forms.
Gods, the children, so many of the children lay broken, their small forms having been so full of life just this morning. More than a few were crushed, their heads pressed into the mud or deep dents upon their bodies from the hooves of horses. Others had been tied to errant posts, their heads hung low as bloodied arrows were removed by passing raiders, many of whom cackled at the sight.
Kurtz suppressed a moan as best he could, as the carnage before him was not done. More than a few women, some injured, others not, were dragged from the corpses of their husbands and children, screaming incoherently as the laughing Dornishmen pulled them into what had once been their homes. Their screams continued, growing worse, and his heart ached as Kurtz saw the man leave the homes, the sobs left behind being the only indication those smallfolk yet lived.
Then the torches were lit, and as the great doors to the stronghouse were opened, Kurtz spied a large group of men move into it, their sigils unknown to him, but that of the enemy no less. Smoke filled the air as every building was set alight by laughing and cheering men, no, not men, demons wearing the skins of men. No man could be so cruel as to do this, no man so evil as to just… do this to a village. They did not send men against these Dornish, they had not sent supplies to their lord, they had not even harbored their own lord's men, why were they being destroyed as such?
The sobs of the women turned to screams as their homes were set aflame with them still inside, some Dornish throwing debris against the doors to trap them inside, others skewering them on spears as they fled the flames. Many a dead man was beheaded, their heads being put on stakes along the road, and more than a few whimpering children, injured but live, were thrown into the burning houses, their screams sometimes mercifully short, and other times not at all. Kurtz retched at the cacophony of suffering and destruction, his morning meal greeting him again at this horrid sight.
"This one's still alive!" he heard a man call, and he peered to his right in time to see a trio of young men, no more than boys, approach him. They were Dornish, all right, though the first two seemed alike. Brothers, perhaps? The third bore more of a First Men look, yet his dark grin was Dornish all the same.
"Not for long, he won't be," the tallest one said. "Michael, I finished off the last one, it's your turn now."
The shorter one looked to the taller. "Wyllam, he's so old, and that wound on his head looks bad. Why not just leave him? He won't be going anywhere after we take the horses, and he'll die of an infection before the week's end."
"Brother, father said that if we are to do this, we must do this right. Unlike cousin Alfrid and some of the others, we true Wyl hold ourselves to a higher standard of killing. If you're going to end their lives, be quick when the situation calls for it, and drawn out when you have the time, as Wyl of Wyl did in Fawnton. Letting this whitebeard suffer wastes our time, and our time in this war is most precious." The older boy said, handing his younger brother a long, wicked-looking knife. "End his suffering so we can get to the meeting, father will be cross if we aren't there on time."
"Yes, brother. The heart, or the neck this time?" the one called Michael asked.
Deep in his belly, Kurtz felt his unease begin to slip away. He was going to die that day, just as his village had died. All the men and women he knew, many from their births, and their children, they were dead, slain to the last no doubt. All that remained was he, and with that, he would enter the embrace of the Seven. Silently, as the younger brother approached, he gave a prayer of thanks that his children had left this village for Lowhill all those years ago.
"The heart, brother, you know the angle, but keep it stuck in for a few moments, less likely for the spray to get on your boots. Cleaning them is such a hassle sometimes, I don't know how the others do it."
As the boy stuck the knife into his chest without a hint of remorse or even pity, Kurtz closed his eyes amidst the pain and loss of breath. Maybe he would see his Rosie again…
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Dorne VI
The acrid smoke filled the air as the barns were set alight, the winter stores burning within them as well. The men had taken all the food they could carry without burdening their mounts and set fire to the rest, to deny any chance of sustaining their foes. Whatever horses they found they took for pack animals or spare mounts, and all livestock they came across were butchered for their fresh meat or left for the buzzards. Alfrid Sand made no show of how much he was enjoying this, for this was only a small part of his plotted revenge, but it enkindled his inner joy all the same. The other lords, his uncle and father among them, saw his actions as necessary for their campaign, to slow the coming Targaryen lords and their armies. Without the means of sustaining themselves between the long marches between settlements, discontent would brew, and the enemy would desert or starve if their march was halted for too long. These lands held little for them to hunt to sustain any great numbers, and it would grow only worse the closer they drew to Dorne.
With luck, that would never happen. Though the missive from the Martells had spoken of armies likely marching from elsewhere, a decisive blow to the sustainability of this eastern force could cripple their entire campaign. The dragons and their combined Crownlander and Stormlander lords would need to hunker down in a place of relative safety, where enough supplies could be brought forth to sustain a march towards Blackhaven and the other Marcher Lords. It was an option that Alfrid was determined to not allow them to have, for if they could stall them long enough, then other interior lords could muster enough men to establish the same chokepoints their people had used for thousands of years to repel their invading neighbors.
However, as with any plan, this one had originally hit somewhat of a snag. The smallfolk of earlier villages had somehow managed to spot their approaches, as they were not raiders and thus moving slower than normal. Whatever those folks could carry, they'd take with them into the stronghouse in the village's center, with thick stone walls and a thick ceramic roof that refused to burn. The thick doors also seemed resistant to fire, and no amount of battering at it seemed to amount to anything, so usually he had men pile debris against it after they torched the rest of the dwellings, hopefully trapping them inside after they had left.
After deciding brute force would not work, Alfrid had been the one to devise using false or taken Dondarrion banners to mask their approach, only coming in with a few riders, the rest hidden on the horizon. The following villages had had no defense once their fortified hut had been taken, locking them outside and leaving them to the hands of his fellow Dornismen. These villages now lay in ruins, the homes and stores burned to ash, their animals slaughtered or taken, their orchards felled, and the smallfolk themselves lying dead where they had been riddled with arrows or stabbed, down to the last child they could find. Some in this great party considered it a sin to slaughter smallfolk so senselessly, but Alfrid and others needed little convincing to repay the injustices heaped upon them by the Stormlanders in the past. Less smallfolk in the area meant the lords could not sustain themselves as easily, and it was a mercy, Alfrid had proclaimed, to end their suffering at the onset of winter, rather than allow them to try and live in the shells of their former homes without the stores to support themselves.
Despite most of their army accepting this in one way or another and the continued successes of using this method, Alfrid Sand knew there were still suspicions amongst the gathered lords and soldiers, concerns arrayed against him, the men under his command, and his abilities to wage war on their old enemy. His original raid into the Stormlands had been a source of such potential, but it had ended in spectacularly disastrous fashion, the likes of which Dornish would snicker about for years to come. The chance to become known as a true Wyl, to marry and earn himself a holdfast from his kin was in serious jeopardy if his new methods were to fail to halt the advance of the Stormlanders.
The white roads had been particularly helpful in this regard. They allowed for their army to move faster, with far less of a dust cloud to announce their approach, and the smallfolk never seemed to expect their encroaching enemy might use those same roads against them. Though their more numerous Stormlander enemies would use these same roads as well, Alfrid knew they would have far more footmen to contend with, and thus need to move slower lest they be separated. If they were, even though outnumbered, the Dornish host could more readily encircle and defeat these smaller portions of Stormlords, a strategy that Alfrid had long but reasonably argued for with the gathered lords. That he was allowed in their assembly at all was a source of trust from his lordly uncle, trust that he could not afford to wastefully spend. In his dreams, his god had told him of the importance of patience, of guiding and letting others make their mistakes and capitalize on them without mercy or hesitation.
Who knows? If this war went right, but the right people also died, his father might become the new Lord Wyl, and he his heir…
"We've the supplies we need to continue our march at good speed, and the men will be well-rested come morning," his uncle Wyllam said, looking to the gathered men within their impromptu hall, the last barn they had yet to set fire to, though this would change come morning. "With our troops now solidly in the Stormlands, we need caution when selecting our next targets, and must scout accordingly, lest we fall into a trap of the enemy's choosing. We've the first portion of the Stormlander host on our heels, no doubt, but we've more than enough room to maneuver should they draw close. However, this will not always be the case, and thus we must also consider which villages are to be targets of importance or exist as mere opportunities. All maps indicate that one of our next targets should be far to the north, some larger village called Highmarsh."
"I agree with Lord Wyl," one of the gathered said, a Jordayne cousin who whilst not a lord had brought with him a small contingent of fine mounted bowmen. He and his men had been instrumental in silencing any potential scouts or outer workmen in the fields around the villages before Alfrid's deception took place. "As we have heard from passing merchants before this war, Highmarsh is a good-sized town with small walls and a great deal of livestock. These beasts could aid in feeding our foes on the march, especially the rumored large cattle they breed there."
"While that may be true, it is too far north to be a good target for us at this moment, I'd wager," another replied, the older uncle of the current Yronwood lord. Just young enough to still fight, he was here more for his accrued skills in planning a battle, having served in sellsword companies in Essos for nigh three decades. "Were we closer, I would agree, but our closest target should be this 'Flavor Hollow' that is spoken of by those same merchants. While a town meant for spice is not exactly as desirable, it is still large enough to have a great deal of stores for the fields surrounding it."
"What if we were to split our force in twain and seek to attack both?" the Jordayne man asked. "We've the speed with which to do so, and it would force our enemies to further divide their forces in an effort to bring us to battle."
"Possible, but we risk having the enemy muster itself between our divided forces, cutting one off from the other," Lord Wyl said. "While dividing our army is a sound strategy, to rely too much on it could spell disaster the further we draw into the Stormlands. For the time being, staying as a single force remains in our best interest. In the future, should we need to, splitting up to attack a wider area may become the more viable option."
"What of Lowhill? As the largest town in these 'Wytch' lands, should we not strike at that?" Alfrid's cousin Michael asked. "Their stores must be great enough to be as much of a threat, if not more, than the food Highmarsh could offer."
"While that may be the case, my son," Lord Wyl replied, "it is also the largest town for a reason. As a central point, it would be able to rally most of the military might of this region of the Stormlands to its walls. While its petty lordling and his neighbors might have few forces in comparison to their more powerful eastern lords, they know the terrain and could be upon us when we least expect it. Adding to that the large walls, the town guard and this rumored 'brigade' defending it, it would do us little good to attack the town itself." To maintain their speed, they had no means of making any sort of siege equipment, and although they could fashion some with whatever trees were near the town, Alfrid agreed with his uncle's assessment. They were not here to conquer, but to destroy and delay.
"Yet the farmland around it would be ripe for the taking," the old Yronwood added. "Pillaging around its walls would cripple the land for at least a season, removing the support the local lord could provide."
"Aye, I wish to see this Lord Wytch suffer for what he heaped upon our fellow Dornish," Alfrid added, speaking for the first time. "Yet I agree with my uncle, in that it is on the field of battle where we will find the greatest success against him and his forces."
"Oh?" the Jordayne cousin asked. "How so?"
"This Lord Wytch, I have it on… personal experience that he is a clever lordling, all things considered, but his fellows are not necessarily cut from the same cloth," Alfrid continued. "Even if they were to join forces, it is not unreasonable to think we could stretch them thin with false retreats and feints along their flanks. Stormlords easily fall for such tactics when their blood runs hot, as history has shown, and all reports indicate his house as being young and less likely to be heeded. Were we to draw them far enough apart…"
"We could destroy them piecemeal, encircling and eventually annihilating their forces in the area, even if they were to initially outnumber us," the old Yronwood said. "Much like how I have heard several khals of old were able to defeat much of Sarnor's military might during the Century of Blood."
"Then we shall continue to this 'Flavor Hollow' to enact such a plan," Lord Wyl said. "In the meantime, Wyllam, Michael, you shall lead your own groups as forward scouts, much as Alfrid has done, as will other men. Ensure the villages we come across do not have a chance to sound the alarm and torch every one you find."
"My lord uncle," Alfrid said, an idea striking him. "What if we were to let one sound the alarm? Or a select few, even?"
"What?" the old Yronwood asked. Wyllam the Elder said nothing, frowning slightly, but nodded for him to continue.
"If we were to, say, ignore certain villages for the time being, or allow them to raise their alarms and send out a rider or two, then the Stormlord host to our backs will surely use that to try and think of where we are going. Let them think we are not marching straight to Flavor Hollow, but to rather its east or north. If we then prepare for how they move to follow us…"
"Then we may catch them unawares, especially if they think us to be where we are not," Lord Wyl replied. "Vanguards are more easily overcome if ambushed in the right location, and our own mounted archers could see quick work of their scouts, to keep them blind or convince them we are in one area, rather than another. Just as well, if they were to place themselves in this village, then we would be more able to cut off their support or encircle them entirely. A commendable plan, nephew."
"I agree, it is sound," the Jordayne added. "My men are more than a match for Stormlander bowmen, even when not on their mounts, and despite our mutual centuries of war I've yet to hear of any of our neighbors utilizing mounted archers for their own retinues. Just as well, a good size of horse bowmen could easily cut off a retreat path for any force or force it to slow and shield itself from our strikes."
"Thus, further separating it from their fellows, especially if messages between the two cannot be delivered, allowing for our smaller force to pick them apart even more," the old Yronwood said. "I agree with young Alfrid on this, Lord Wyl, it is a good plan, one we can use well in these open lands."
"When the time comes for such actions to be taken, we shall have to see. For now, the plan remains as we have discussed. We burn and pillage everything we can to halt the advance of their Crownland reinforcements and to cut off any routes for supplies towards Dorne. Should they manage to grow closer by the time we reach Flavor Hollow, then we shall see about picking them apart. For now, return to your men, I'm to have words with my family, my lords."
As the rest filed out of the barn, Alfrid felt a sense of pride. The others had not questioned his observations, nor had been all that doubtful of his plans. Sure, they still regarded him with suspicion, but even the suspicious were accepted when presenting sound plans. Perhaps he was well on his way to earning-
He stumbled when he felt his uncle's slap, his cheek stinging from the older man's palm. Wincing, he raised his arms to defend another blow, but it never fell, and glaring at his uncle, he was returned by a harsher glare yet.
"Your ideas are sound, Alfrid, but come to me with them first," Wyllam the Elder growled, motioning to his two sons. "Wyllam and Michael are my sons and bear the Wyl name, so they can raise questions or offer comments, but only after they have spoken to me on the matter beforehand. You, however, are yet a Sand, and do not have that privilege. I allowed you to attend this meeting because to have done so without you would have been seen as disrespectful to one who has contributed well to our campaign so far, which in turn would reflect poorly on me as well. If the others begin to question me, then they will question my methods and our ultimate goals."
"So, Michael's question on Lowhill… you knew?"
"Of course, my sons know that I play the game with my fellows, even when we are at war. It is how I maintain cohesion where other lords might create discord. Just as well, best to have my son ask the question, and I logically point out its flaws as his father, rather than do the same with another lord and earn his ire for a perceived slight. You would do well to remember, nephew, that coordinating the Dornish people in wartime is not as easy as the Martells would have you believe. Fierce pride and hot blood can undo even the greatest of plans, and so I must take great care in ensuring our continued success. I cannot have you jeopardizing that, so remember your place, or I shall have to remind you again… severely this time."
Alfrid was silent to that, nursing his stinging cheek but saying nothing more.
"Now then," Wyllam the Elder continued, "I wish to speak with my sons and brother. Alfrid, see to the men, we will be striking camp come morning's early light."
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Away from the camp, Alfrid peered into a small cask, the water within giving him the opportunity to check his reflection for the first time since their march had begun. He appeared no different than he always had, save for less hair than he remembered, but he knew something about him was changing beyond mere hair loss. The gift from his new god, perhaps? His dreams spoke of such additions to his person, means by which he would grow stronger and harder to defeat. His jaw was beginning to hurt, as if it were growing too heavy for his face, and while they seemed the same, his teeth felt firmer, with the lines between them were not so distinct anymore. His eyes seemed to water constantly, though he shed no tears, and on the edges of his sight, he could see colors that he had no name for and suspected no others could see. Strangely, his neck seemed to be accumulating more skin, small folds forming where there had been none before. Hopefully, he would not grow a bulge, he had heard women did not care for men with fat necks.
Yet for these strange changes, he felt himself growing stronger, fiercer, insightful even. His cunning had long since grown well beyond what it had been years before, comparable to a pool of dark water, reacting only when disturbed by outside events, eternally unknowable to those who peered into its dark depths. He could swing his sword faster and harder than ever before, as could those who had received a similar 'revelation' from his god's hidden well, but he was different from them. He was the first, the newest, and felt it in his blood that he would receive the greatest gifts yet to come, the ones that would allow for his final vengeance against Lord Wytch.
Alfrid smiled at the thought of how humbled his foe would be before his demise, ignoring how his own eyes bulged slightly, or how his grin seemed wider than before, sharply so.
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