Snow, was falling. He looked up at the night sky, the clouds thick, hiding the sweet mellow glow of the moon behind them. It has been some time since he has walked down this road. The party was walking slowly, though their trip has been long, and wrought with fear and blood. Forty Men left Bree many months ago, and of that party, twelve are returning, beards covering their faces like fierce manes, armour scuffed or torn. Weapons broken, and help together with vines and rope. Shields, of those that remains, were cracked or cloven, slung over their backs. At the head of the party though, stood a large man. Not overly tall, but built like a keg, and armoured in dinted, and dirty steel.
"Bree." he said, as the towns glow was seen on the horizon, the men smiled, looking to one another bashfully, grinning and shoving. Bill Cutting rolled his large shoulders backward, bone-weary, dead eyed, yet onward he walked with what remained of the men he took North.
They were close, but decided to camp off the road, to get a good nights rest, before heading back into town for the first time in many months. They sat, scattered, and leaning against the ruined walls of the old fortress, which has seen years of disuse. Bill stared down from the wall, at his men. They all slowly drifted off to sleep, one by one, the snow swirling down in vollies. His eyes too, began to drift, and close, the snow settling down on his unmoving frame. He liked the cold. His head tilted to the side, and a slight snore began, as sleep finally claimed him.
Crack.
Bill snapped his eyes open, dagger in hand. His eyes darted down to his men, though it was just one of them waking to piss on the nearby tree. He grinned to himself, sheathing the blade, dismissing the anger that roused him from sleep. And that is when they came.
Men and women, armed with clubs, daggers, axes, and here and there a sword, rushed the sleeping party from the gaping holes of the ruin. Bill leaped down, picking up his axe, engaging one of the charging southrons, three of his men perished in their sleep, before the rest roused themselves in anger, groggy, yet laying about with their weapons, for their very lives depended on it.
Bill grabbed one of the men by the shoulder, digging his thumb hard into his collarbone, causing the man to cry out in pain. Bill lifted the axe, and buried the head in the mans face, once, twice, the crunch causes a few to cringe, and the blood causes others to remain in shock as their comrades fought on. Two men pounced on Bill, pulling him to the ground, though one of Bills men intervened before the death blow fell.
It was chaos, and the sounds of fighting, and choking men filled the air. Within the fort, men fought for their lives, and others climbed on stumbling foes to clench their fists around their throats, the southrons faces turning purple. The rest started to run away, and Bill, and the remaining four men, finished what remained of the Southron attackers. Those that yet lived, were impaled on branches, and were left to die, either from their wounds, or starvation. The dying comrades of Bill, were given mercy.
Bill looked at the bloodied blanket of snow, and then turned to look at his men, "Go home. We'll meet soon, with the rest." he said, his men leaving one by one, leaving Bill alone, walking with his axe slung over his shoulder, his boots trodding for Bree.
