Today I wake up to the sound of chirping. There is a promise of a violet sky today. The grass is the colour of emerald green; the sky, a cerulean blue.
I climbed out of bed today; the bed that is the small patch of grass sitting under the cover of a large oak tree. It is one of the few spots which dodges the incessant rain that has fallen from the past few days. My Arabian robe has grown damp; its cotton fusing with the early morning dew, and I shiver – half from the cutting whip of the cold air and half from the anticipation I now feel for the day’s offer of imminence.
I decide to take a stroll. Breathing in the smells emanating from the greenery and from the gentle coloured daisies and pastel flavoured tulips, I wander over to where the hills dance with the arch of the sunrise. I near the peak, look down ahead of me, and almost topple over from the sheer impact of the image before me. What normally stood a small local village was now the product of pure destruction. What normally would have been the sounds of busy carts being drawn across to the marketplace is now replaced with despair. The huts have been torn down, the stalls of the market have been overturned, and the sight of another soul rests in dissipation.
I pick through a pile of rubble until I sense movement beside me. Instinctively, I feel the knot of cautiousness; my hand already touching on the hilt of my sword. Before I can even tune into searching for the source of disturbance, the skulker pounces out. The surprise throws me back onto the barky remains on the ground. I recover quickly as I scramble to my feet, only to see the face of the villain. To my surprise, it is not a wretched ogre, nor even a rogue corpse.
It is my brother, Joseph.
