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A Shattered Realms story

Frosted air lanced its way into Warren's lungs, past quivering-blue lips and stinging-red eyes. Yesterday's tranquil snowfall had changed into a sheet of freezing rain, pelting Warren like a hail of tiny arrows in the gust. He wrapped his woolen coat tighter to his chest, hoping to ward off the wintry storm. The effort was in vain, for the chill seeped through, numbing his skin and chattering his teeth. Still he persisted on. Dipping his head to the oncoming wind and rain, Warren slapped the reigns on the back of his horse, urging the cart onward through the frigid muck of Blackhill Cemetery.

Blackhill, like a forest of the dead, was rows upon rows of tombstones that stood erect to the front and back, left and right. Some were recently placed, laden with floral tributes, boasting a polished shine of smooth marble and black writing. Others were overgrown and unkempt, long since abandoned by their mourners. Most, however, had weathered and crumbled past recognition, the depredations of time reclaiming those plots for the soil. The skeletal remains of gnarled trees were scattered about, with pillows of glittering snow, clusters of mud-brown ice, and the delicate drizzle of frost clung to the bleak and dismal expanse.

Warren continued on until he came upon the crown of a hill, where a new grave had been dug. Urging his horse to stop, Warren disembarked, ice breaking beneath his boots like the brittle frosting on a cake. From within the wagon, he withdrew a corpse wrapped tightly in a dingy burial sheet. The form-fitted shroud revealed that the body belonged to a woman, though nothing else was discernible. Belying his frail stature, Warren solemnly deposited the deceased woman into her grave.

Shovel in hand, Warren stood still as stone, his weary eyes fixated on the distant horizon. The gloom of the day was reflected in the mood of the sky, whose leaden-woven curtain of dark blue and grey blanketed the sky so completely, it threatened to drown the land in perpetual twilight.

And there, miles distant, past the meandering fields of slumbering snow and ice, scarcely a dark smudge sprawling across the somber skyline, was Zrada, the City of Towers.

"Home to a million souls," Warren grumbled, voice coarse like fragmented rock, "and not a single one came to mourn."

Warren muttered something incoherent, then went to work. With his shovel, he poured the earth over the dead woman. The task along with the bitter cold soon turned Warren's fingers raw and numb but he did not care. He worked until the task was done, when every piece of dirt was densely patted back into the ground.

He then bowed his head in honor and reverence. With his eyes closed and spirit humbled, Warren prayed:

O' mighty divines, eternal lights of life,

I come to you with a weary heart.
Help us find solace in the knowledge,
of your endless mercy for all your children.
Though this woman, I knew not,
I ask you grant her rest in the eternal evergreen,
in the peace and light of your presence,
where sorrow and pain are forever cast away.
O' mighty divines, whose ways are beyond understanding,
look with pity unto those she may have left behind.
To their suffering, bring joy,
and to their darkness, bring light.
O' mighty divines, I ask this in your hallowed names,
Amen.

With a mighty exhalation, Warren returned to his cart, soon vanishing in the sea of graves.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

A Shattered Realms story

Frosted air lanced its way into Warren's lungs, past quivering-blue lips and stinging-red eyes. Yesterday's tranquil snowfall had changed into a sheet of freezing rain, pelting Warren like a hail of tiny arrows in the gust. He wrapped his woolen coat tighter to his chest, hoping to ward off the wintry storm. The effort was in vain, for the chill seeped through, numbing his skin and chattering his teeth. Still he persisted on. Dipping his head to the oncoming wind and rain, Warren slapped the reigns on the back of his horse, urging the cart onward through the frigid muck of Blackhill Cemetery.

Blackhill, like a forest of the dead, was rows upon rows of tombstones that stood erect to the front and back, left and right. Some were recently placed, laden with floral tributes, boasting a polished shine of smooth marble and black writing. Others were overgrown and unkempt, long since abandoned by their mourners. Most, however, had weathered and crumbled past recognition, the depredations of time reclaiming those plots for the soil. The skeletal remains of gnarled trees were scattered about, with pillows of glittering snow, clusters of mud-brown ice, and the delicate drizzle of frost clung to the bleak and dismal expanse.

Warren continued on until he came upon the crown of a hill, where a new grave had been dug. Urging his horse to stop, Warren disembarked, ice breaking beneath his boots like the brittle frosting on a cake. From within the wagon, he withdrew a corpse wrapped tightly in a dingy burial sheet. The form-fitted shroud revealed that the body belonged to a woman, though nothing else was discernible. Belying his frail stature, Warren solemnly deposited the deceased woman into her grave.

Shovel in hand, Warren stood still as stone, his weary eyes fixated on the distant horizon. The gloom of the day was reflected in the mood of the sky, whose leaden-woven curtain of dark blue and grey blanketed the sky so completely, it threatened to drown the land in perpetual twilight.

And there, miles distant, past the meandering fields of slumbering snow and ice, scarcely a dark smudge sprawling across the somber skyline, was Zrada, the City of Towers.

"Home to a million souls," Warren grumbled, voice coarse like fragmented rock, "and not a single one came to mourn."

Warren muttered something incoherent, then went to work. With his shovel, he poured the earth over the dead woman. The task along with the bitter cold soon turned Warren's fingers raw and numb but he did not care. He worked until the task was done, when every piece of dirt was densely patted back into the ground.

He then bowed his head in honor and reverence. With his eyes closed and spirit humbled, Warren prayed:

O' mighty divines, eternal lights of life,

I come to you with a weary heart.
Help us find solace in the knowledge,
of your endless mercy for all your children.
Though this woman, I knew not,
I ask you grant her rest in the eternal evergreen,
in the peace and light of your presence,
where sorrow and pain are forever cast away.
O' mighty divines, whose ways are beyond understanding,
look with pity unto those she may have left behind.
To their suffering, bring joy,
and to their darkness, bring light.
O' mighty divines, I ask this in your hallowed names,
Amen.

With a mighty exhalation, Warren returned to his cart, soon vanishing in the sea of graves.