Friday, January 23, 2015

small vengeance

Large dark eyes surrounded them. They did not know. They never would.

The kobolds, those still living at least, watched the wild and sinuous movements of the large ones. The big brutes danced ecstatic in their bloody victory over the “cave dogs”.

The humans were loud and careless. The kobolds were quiet and careful.

When the last of the men succumbed to drink, the small monsters quietly flowed out of hidden holes and midden heaps.

The village awoke to the smell of smoke as their grain stores sullenly burned. When Alexander Wainwright tried to draw water from the well, something snapped within it. The resultant collapse killed him outright and wounded many doughty men. No shovels nor bills nor any useful tools could be found. The villagers could do little but watch their winter stores burn through the long night.

Come the morning light, they found their livestock massacred in their fields. The meat all either removed or ruined.

Later that afternoon, the old bridge to Newburg collapsed as Jim Cranson tried to drive his great wagon across it. He would bring no saving supplies back to town. He cracked his head upon an ox’s hoof and drown.

That next night, the first heavy snow fell. A great white blanket of cold and the slow surety of death settled upon the village.

As for the kobolds, they would think often of the human’s wild dancing and remember its ungainly elegance.

No comments:

Post a Comment