thistlemead

Thistlemead tugged at the reigns before him, bringing his horse to a halt, ‘Thistlemead!’ he cried out, noting his own presence. Three men behind raised flags of red, waving them.
A single fire took to the sky in response.

‘Four years ago, we were beaten,’ began the old man as he addressed the crowd before him, ‘our homes were lost, our wives stolen, our children’s heads thrown at the walls as they came crashing down.
‘Now we are a notable force: one that simply cannot be ignored. We began with a number of five men; now we are in the hundreds! People in the Breelands, in the lands to the South, the North... we are a people.’

‘They are lost and leaderless,’ began the old man in a serious yet quiet tone, ‘their lands have been torn asunder by the passing of time.’

‘You tell me this,’ Thistlemead spat, ‘when I care very little? Should every single one of them starve, it would not affect me.’

Thistlemead rose from his sleeping place in the middle of the field. He could still hear the cries of Greyleaf, whom had been tied to a pole in the exact middle of the camp. ‘He will get us all killed,’ he muttered as he came upon the group that had gathered around one of three campfires, ‘a merchant will be strolling down the road; he’ll hear screaming and call for the militia.’

‘You know why you are here, Greyleaf,’ said the leader of the three other men, his voice cold and terrifying, though it carried a strange unwelcomed warmth, ‘tell us the names of those you have been speaking to so boldly.’