A Difference Made
pucflek
Verified simpleton
- Location
- Czech Republic
It was one of the poor farmer's girls, he noticed as he looked over the commotion. Short, her cheeks a bit sunken, blotchy from all the crying the poor thing did as they went about tying her to a pole. The fate of all the cursed children unfortunate enough to be born in the wild Stirland, where the folk still held to old ways of Sigmar.
The ways of the times before old Magnus took the hammer and showed the three dunces whats what. But the Empire was big, and the folk don't change customs quickly, if they change at all.
The crowd wasn't big, but there were still quite a few. Maybe two, three dozen, all told. And he was all alone, this little hamlet in middle of nowhere not warranting proper garrison. He thought, briefly, about turning back. Because this, this, might get very ugly very quickly. It wasn't the first mob he ever saw trying to burn a witch, there were plenty really, back from the days when he still wore the colors.
Sometimes the people were scared, sometimes they were eager to "purge the accursed" and sometimes they just wanted a spectacle. Something to liven up the dreary boredom of everyday life. It was often, then, that they turned to fight with whichever patrol happened by the yet unlit pyre, hot blood flowing and in the mood for violence against the other that would be denied to them.
Was her life worth the trouble? He looked into the girl's eyes, wide with terror visible even from where he stood, flicking this way and that, searching for familiar faces in the crowd, calling their names for help. He looked as they finished tying her up, her shoulders slumping with the realization her family was not coming to help. Maybe, he thought, and maybe not, but it was not up to him. He steeled himself and walked through the wall of onlookers, his purposeful stride getting attention from the Headsman. He drew himself to his full height, put the hand on the pommel of his sword, and reminded him that there were laws.
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She really was small. The Webers had more children than they had acres to plow, and it was obvious that she had not gotten much to eat that day, or any day really, what with the way she scarfed the plain bread and goat cheese he gave her in his cabin. Might stay small her entire life, even. He saw it happen often, in poor hamlets like this. Runty children made for runty adults.
But he supposed it didn't matter either. He saw a couple of wizards, back in his soldiering days, as they joined their ranks when they had to purge a ghoul here or when skeleton popped up there. Magic hadn't cared a whit for what one looked like.
She hadn't talked much either, but that was easy to understand. As the hours grew longer and the light of day faded, it became clearer and clearer her family was not coming to get her. Maybe too afraid of magic, or maybe they were glad they were rid of her, one mouth too many to feed. Maybe they even gave her over themselves. He saw that happen too. There wasn't much one didn't see, at his age.
He tried to talk to her a few times, thought to liven the silence up a little, but he was not much for small talk, and figured that the tales of an old veteran weren't for little girl's ears to hear, especially after a day so harrowing. And so all that echoed out into the night was just the sound of dust settling on the ruins of a young life.
___________________________________
He did not know what drove him to it, but he asked about her, when journeymen from the Colleges happened to pass by. It was fairly often, especially with the purple ones, but a grey one swung by once or twice a year, and then the bandits he was afraid to hunt, the ones with shifting eyes that talked tongues so foul it rose hair on ones head, well, they disappeared.
The Wizards usually talked to him afterwards, asked about any unusual happenstances that might need their attention, but he did not have much to offer, the strange outcroppings of bandits aside. So he asked about her instead. They were leery, and one regarded him so suspiciously he was afraid he would not walk away from that talk, but after asking him why he was curious and finding out his hand in her fate, they at least told him she was alive, and well, and one summer, they even told him she was to be apprenticed.
It was nice, he thought. Most of the time, it was eternal struggle, as Sigmar had said. One toiled and toiled for years as their body grew weary and slow, and the evil never went away, as tireless as ever. But here, at least, was one good deed that he knew, right down to his bloody marrow, would count.
He did not hold out much hope that she would ever come back, what with her family. But he knew he would like to meet her again if she did.
_______________________________
I puked on a keyboard and this fell out.
The ways of the times before old Magnus took the hammer and showed the three dunces whats what. But the Empire was big, and the folk don't change customs quickly, if they change at all.
The crowd wasn't big, but there were still quite a few. Maybe two, three dozen, all told. And he was all alone, this little hamlet in middle of nowhere not warranting proper garrison. He thought, briefly, about turning back. Because this, this, might get very ugly very quickly. It wasn't the first mob he ever saw trying to burn a witch, there were plenty really, back from the days when he still wore the colors.
Sometimes the people were scared, sometimes they were eager to "purge the accursed" and sometimes they just wanted a spectacle. Something to liven up the dreary boredom of everyday life. It was often, then, that they turned to fight with whichever patrol happened by the yet unlit pyre, hot blood flowing and in the mood for violence against the other that would be denied to them.
Was her life worth the trouble? He looked into the girl's eyes, wide with terror visible even from where he stood, flicking this way and that, searching for familiar faces in the crowd, calling their names for help. He looked as they finished tying her up, her shoulders slumping with the realization her family was not coming to help. Maybe, he thought, and maybe not, but it was not up to him. He steeled himself and walked through the wall of onlookers, his purposeful stride getting attention from the Headsman. He drew himself to his full height, put the hand on the pommel of his sword, and reminded him that there were laws.
___________________________________
She really was small. The Webers had more children than they had acres to plow, and it was obvious that she had not gotten much to eat that day, or any day really, what with the way she scarfed the plain bread and goat cheese he gave her in his cabin. Might stay small her entire life, even. He saw it happen often, in poor hamlets like this. Runty children made for runty adults.
But he supposed it didn't matter either. He saw a couple of wizards, back in his soldiering days, as they joined their ranks when they had to purge a ghoul here or when skeleton popped up there. Magic hadn't cared a whit for what one looked like.
She hadn't talked much either, but that was easy to understand. As the hours grew longer and the light of day faded, it became clearer and clearer her family was not coming to get her. Maybe too afraid of magic, or maybe they were glad they were rid of her, one mouth too many to feed. Maybe they even gave her over themselves. He saw that happen too. There wasn't much one didn't see, at his age.
He tried to talk to her a few times, thought to liven the silence up a little, but he was not much for small talk, and figured that the tales of an old veteran weren't for little girl's ears to hear, especially after a day so harrowing. And so all that echoed out into the night was just the sound of dust settling on the ruins of a young life.
___________________________________
He did not know what drove him to it, but he asked about her, when journeymen from the Colleges happened to pass by. It was fairly often, especially with the purple ones, but a grey one swung by once or twice a year, and then the bandits he was afraid to hunt, the ones with shifting eyes that talked tongues so foul it rose hair on ones head, well, they disappeared.
The Wizards usually talked to him afterwards, asked about any unusual happenstances that might need their attention, but he did not have much to offer, the strange outcroppings of bandits aside. So he asked about her instead. They were leery, and one regarded him so suspiciously he was afraid he would not walk away from that talk, but after asking him why he was curious and finding out his hand in her fate, they at least told him she was alive, and well, and one summer, they even told him she was to be apprenticed.
It was nice, he thought. Most of the time, it was eternal struggle, as Sigmar had said. One toiled and toiled for years as their body grew weary and slow, and the evil never went away, as tireless as ever. But here, at least, was one good deed that he knew, right down to his bloody marrow, would count.
He did not hold out much hope that she would ever come back, what with her family. But he knew he would like to meet her again if she did.
_______________________________
I puked on a keyboard and this fell out.
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