The pillars of black smoke funneled together into the sky like a cluster of spears jutting into the earth. As Jonn reached the top of the last rocky hill, he saw where those “spears” converged: the small village where he had stayed peacefully for the past week. At the point where the spears of smoke ended, the fires began, flowing out like blood from a deep wound. Grass, straw, wood, and clay were the primary materials used to build the small group of crude huts making up the village. Everything burned or crumbled under the blazing heat.
Jonn held on tight as his mount rushed forward tirelessly, her sweating hide worked into a lather. Little could be seen through the haze of smoke settling on the valley. Jonn readied himself for whatever he might find, desperately pushing back memories of his past. Memories of fire and death. “Not again,” he prayed aloud. “I can still help. It's not too late. It can't be.”
Managing to slow his mount just barely, Jonn tumbled onto the ground just outside of the village. The horse galloped straight into the smoke. He had a feeling he knew what she was looking for.
Jonn got to his feet quickly, again ignoring the sharp pain in his side. He readied his shield and sword, eyes darting around for any remaining threat. Were any of the attackers still here? Any remaining danger? Could he still be of use, or was the battle already—
Out of the gloom directly towards him ran a lone half-orc. One arm greedily clutched as many valuables as he could hold—though some still slipped through his grasp as he ran—while the other hand held a short sword dripping with blood. Red blood. The marauder sneered maliciously as he spotted Jonn in his path and let out a wicked laugh. Jonn's experienced reflexes kicked in. He quickly sized up the attacker's strategy, thinking automatically, “One attacker, weapon raised, no defense, fast approach. Swing shield to deflect/disarm weapon, possibly stun. Strong attack, and finish.” The invader neared, Jonn tensed, and....
Suddenly, the screaming half-orc stumbled to a halt. His eyes went wide and stared into Jonn's. The sword slipped from his hand as he fell to his knees. His now-free hand clawed towards Jonn's shield but came up short, and he collapsed face-first into the dirt and ash, other arm still clutching his spoils. An arrow sprouted from his back, still vibrating from its recent flight. Behind the now-dead assailant the smoke cleared enough for Jonn to see one of the village's few warriors sitting up, still holding his bow. Then after a brief grin of satisfaction, the man shuddered painfully and fell backwards, succumbing to his own many wounds.
“Too late,” Jonn thought. “I came too late.” A breeze picked up and the haze began to clear some more. He started to stalk through the town, but his arms soon dropped woodenly to his sides as he saw that the battle was truly over. Bodies lied strewn everywhere, those of village folk being the majority by far. Mothers wailed, cradling the limp corpses of their sons. Women sobbed over their husbands, men over their wives. A small boy, barely old enough to walk, cried as he kept nudging his mother's form, not understanding why she wouldn't wake up.
A few villagers simply stood there, staring with disbelieving eyes at the remains of what was once their home. Others raced around throwing buckets of dirt or water from the nearby stream onto what flames remained, while still others tended to the most grievously injured of the massacre.
Nearby a snort and frustrated whinny could be heard. Jonn made his way to the sound and found his cream-colored horse, now smudged with soot, pawing at the ground and nudging a piece of rubble with her nose. “Hey, girl, what is it?” He kneeled down and saw the waist and legs of a clanswoman sticking out from under the fallen beam. “Oh no! Is it...?” He looked sympathetically up at the horse and nodded solemnly. “Of course. It must be. Let's get this off her, shall we?”
Together they managed to carefully remove the rubble from on top of the young woman's broken body. Though barely an adult, she was smaller than most, frail looking. Jonn peered at her face. “Glorwen. I tried to save you; I thought I had. Until...this. Was it worth it? Did you find any peace, anything worth living for, at the end?” He tenderly cupped her face in his hand, then pulled back sharply as her head rotated unnaturally. With a grimace he set to work draping her over the horse's back and leading them out of town—what was left of it—to lay her to rest. The first of many such trips in the coming days.
Glorwen's new husband and newer son had perished to an attack by a rival clan just before Jonn arrived in the area. He found her and somehow managed to convince her to keep on living, to keep on trying. In truth, during the last week, Jonn even grew to fancy her, just a little. In any case, she gave Jonn her late husband's horse in gratitude, and he promised to take care of it.
The sun set on that bloody day, but wails could still be heard from whatever homes still stood. That same sound would be heard for days and months to come. Jonn stood, weary to the bone along with his steed, watching that sun and hearing those wails. He knew he'd stay a day or so longer to help with immediate needs, but after that...?
“What now?” he asked the growing darkness. “What's the point? I couldn't save...my home. I was too weak; I couldn't—didn't know how. And now, now that I've trained, I've learned, I've fought. I...I still couldn't save this home. I'm just one man. One man against endless hordes. They keep growing, and we keep dwindling. Armies of orcs, and men and...and wizards even. What can one man, what can...I do against such forces? I can't save any one. I couldn't save...Glorwen.”
The horse nudged Jonn's shoulder at the mention of the name. “Glorwen. You like that name?” The mount threw its head up and snorted, whether in understanding of the question or in just being horse-like, Jonn couldn't tell. Still, he took it as an assent. “I like it too. Alright, Glorwen, we best get some rest. We aren't done yet.”
