The sun had just begun to set over the painfully worn-down town of Clintsdale. You couldn’t help but notice how the paint on the shutters of the little hamlets was peeling and the roofs were missing shingles. But this did not matter to the residents because they were too preoccupied. Most of their concern these days was focused on the roaming hordes that went from town to town, taking over the town’s peace. Their group was commanded by a scraggly-looking man by the name of Gruth. He had long, jet-black hair and a grandiose beard. He stood a head taller than most of the men in his troop. A scar marked his left cheek from one of his many fights. He wore a long black pelt that looked to be from a bear. His boots were worn and were an unusual shade of brownish black from all the dirt and grime.

Gruth left his horse and sauntered toward the gate of Clintsdale. He looked around in an exaggerated manner, amusing only himself. He puffed on his pipe as he approached the entrance to the town. The gate was falling apart and appeared to be made of oak. Boards were missing in many places, and what used to be a rich, dark brown coating was now a lightly weathered brown. The doors of the gate opened slowly and out came the town leader, Sloan. He was a frail old man with barely any hair left on his head. His nose had a bend in it, a token from getting into fights as a child. His clothes were royal once, but they were very old, with stains at the bottom.

“What do you want?” Sloan said.

“You know why we’re here. Hurry up and give us what we came for,” Gruth grunted as smoke billowed from his pipe.“I have already given you most of what we have, and we won’t make it through the spring planting with even less!” Sloan pleaded.

With one quick swoop of his hand, Gruth had Sloan sprawled on the ground. The fall was hard for the old man and caused him to start bleeding from the mouth.

“I do not ask for excuses. I come for what is mine.” Gruth was infuriated that the respect he thought he deserved was not being given.

“Okay… okay, I’ll get you what you want,” Sloan gasped.

As the group went into the town to seize what they felt was theirs, they noticed the people who lived there did indeed look very poor and destitute. Most of them had dirt on their faces and appeared malnourished. As the intruders walked down the muddy path that had been trampled over the years, they came upon a tavern with a weathered oak sign reading “Smart’s Tavern,” with a faint hint of what used to be gold coloring. On the other side of the road stood the blacksmith and the church, the two having been connected for years. There had been many fires in that area, and they had often been forced to rebuild. Unfortunately, the blacksmith was not as skilled as the townspeople would like. His red hair, almost the color of fire, had been singed off in many careless accidents. The church had not been used by the people for quite some time, and the doors were barely hanging on their hinges.

The base of the two buildings was stone, transitioning into wood about halfway up. Most of the town wanted everything made of stone because of the frequent fires, but they didn’t have the money or time. They had painted the top part of the church and blacksmith an off-white color. Most of that paint, however, had been charred black.

As Gruth and his men stood in the courtyard, they watched the townspeople bring forth all kinds of gifts. One small child could be seen trying to hide his favorite toy from the intruders. One of Gruth’s men noticed, snatched the toy, and backhanded the child. A little blood dripped from the child’s mouth. The man broke the toy and dropped it back in front of the weeping child’s body. As more offerings were brought, you could see the helplessness in each person. They wore friendly smiles as they came forward, but their eyes showed despair. They brought wheat, weapons, and even some of the older children who were skilled with a sword. The minions of the leader began loading everything that had been offered. But this was still not sizable enough for them. The horde began to get restless, and dissent in the ranks was starting to form. The townspeople could tell, but they knew they had nothing left to give. They had already run dry on their winter supplies. Most of the goods in the town had been taken by the intruders in times past. Sloan was scrambling to find something else. All that remained were their horses, which they needed to provide food for the already starving town. They needed at least ten horses to sustain themselves and had eleven. He brought one horse forward.

“Is this everything you have?” Gruth exclaimed.

“We have a little left, but we need it to survive,” Sloan said.

“Lying is unbecoming of a man. Be honest and the town will be spared,” Gruth said.

“We can’t survive without what we have left,” Sloan replied.

Before Gruth could say another word, a child came forward. He held a small toy horse that was missing a leg from being played with too much. Gruth looked down and a crooked smirk formed on his face. The other men in his group began to laugh. A child was offering his only broken toy out of fear. The group felt as if this was enough. They could now leave with pride.

They rode away from the town up to the hill that overlooked it. Night had just begun and rain had started to fall. From the hill, they could see the mountains of the east, lush with trees and food. They didn’t dare go there because of the Gruffians of that land. The night went on and the townsfolk could hear the party from the barbarian camp. They tried to scrounge together what little they could. The elders of the town were discussing what to do next when a young man named Rodger walked into the old hall.

Banners hung from the rafters that used to be golden and gray, but with time the banners had faded to tan and almost a dusty white. The tables were made of great quality and still held their shine and sturdiness, even with everything else aging. You could see the walls had caked-on dirt and slime, and the throne was no longer there. A dark black stain sat where the throne used to.

This village used to be the pride of the area. It almost rivaled the city of Briarhaven for beauty. But when all the young men left for the war decades ago, it threw the town into a spiral of poverty. Not long after, the other kingdoms taxed it into near extinction.

“We need to find a way to get more crops and food for our people and defend ourselves from the Barbarian horde,” Sloan screamed. The other Elders nodded in agreement as always, but none had an original idea on how to get this done. Then Rodger started to speak.

“Why don’t we go to the east? We know that the Gruffians don’t get along with the Barbarians who raid us. We can bring them down to help us and give them part of our land in return,” Rodger said.

Rodger looked young. His youthful face made him appear to be about seventeen. He had hair that fell around his ears, curly at the ends. In this light, his hair was so dark it was almost black, but in the sun you could see it was actually a very dark brown. His eyes were hazel, but not dark hazel. They were the brown of dark caramel. He was a tall boy with a bright smile, large for his age, and stood around the same height as the rest of the men in the meeting. His clothes were worn, like a working man’s. He wore a long, warm coat due to there still being a nip in the air with winter just beginning.

“Yes, but once they’re finished with them, won’t they come for us? Would that not be worse?” Sloan rebutted. Anxiety could be seen on almost every face in the room. They had lived with it for years. They feared almost everything and would not change. The room fell quiet, and the pressure of their situation bore down on everyone in the hall.

“I will go and see if they will help. They are honorable people and could help us back on our feet. What can it hurt to try? If we get attacked by Gruth or we get attacked by the Gruffians, what is the difference? At least we have a chance.”

“You may go, but you do not have the Elders’ consent. If you choose to do this, you are on your own and we will not back you,” Sloan stated to Rodger.

“If you think that is going to change anything, then you are a fool!” shouted another Elder.

Rodger did not care what they thought. He had made up his mind. He would go. It was the town’s only chance at survival, and he had to at least attempt it. If the Gruffians would not help, then he would go to the Rebels of Smithville or the Mages of the swamps. He knew they could not continue on this path as a people, no matter the cost. He was going to find a way to save his land from the enemies within and end the raids once and for all.

Rodger went home to gather his belongings. He had moved here with his parents when he was fifteen, and now they were both dead. His mother was taken by starvation, and his father died defending himself during one of the raids back when they first began. The only thing he had left was Goliath, a horse his father had given him.

The horse had flaring nostrils and a strong coat, mostly white with a black streak along its nose and eyes. It stood taller than the rest of the horses by nearly a foot and had been well cared for. Rodger saddled him, packed his last items, and rode away out the back of town to avoid the Barbarian patrols.