Thilwend

Ethel came to me one merry morn in spring, as many flowers had started blossoming, and the golden sun gently warmed the frosted grass. Tall tales she had heard from Thilwend, the esteemed sergeant of the guard, and to me Ethel asked if I would gather more stories from those that still remembered, as she had always loved listening to my tales of yore. 

There was an ominous aura of melancholy on the streets of Bancross in the days after the battle. The worried faces and itching sword-arms had been quietly replaced by tear-filled eyes, hunched backs and feet dragging on the ground behind them. While our dead could be counted in a handful, the pained and wounded were more plentiful; some with missing limbs, while others got away with only deep cuts and bruises. The east-borne enemy had not fared as well.

We said farewell to our kinsmen last night with the lighting of pyres in the center of the village near the mead-hall. I knew some of the fallen by name and face, but not intimately. I feel selfish for being thankful for this. Others are heartbroken. And while I have had my share of being broken with grief, I still can't muster a good reason why I should not suffer as they do.

Foolish thoughts, I know. 

((The kin members do not feel happy continuing writing the series of battles in this planned story line at the moment, due to world events. This is a short winding up of the tale so far. Others may post their summary as well. Further writing after the summaries will focus on more peaceful matters. )) 

What sort of man am I become, that lies and false promises drip from my quill and from my tongue? I was raised to hold honour highly, to speak truth, or not at all. I was raised to hold to my word, to keep any oaths I uttered, any promises I made.

For what is a man without his honour?