The Wind and The Dark Guard-Prologue

Prologue

There were ten men in an oval room, all had the factitious joy of greed about them, all except one, their doublets of deep purple or azure or spotted grey and black, pinned bull horn buttons, silver and buttons of human bone. One man, one seated on the highest seat, and named rightfully so. He was dressed modestly, clothes of one whose ambition eclipsed vanity.

Each man was seated according to his lands, for there were many now, divided by failed conquest and incessant warring.
The night outside their small building was black, so black in fact that torch light glowed only a shallow, timid light, no moon watched the land and no stars twinkled in their multitudes. The hills were grey blotches and the mountains beyond weren't to be seen.
A small tapping of tiny feet on the tin roof heralded the harbinger of rain. For the men inside played with lives and lands, history, present and future, and generations to come and go.

The man who did not sink to the smallness and flaunts of finely dressed men, would be the precedent for war and fire and death.
He was the stuff of fable, legend, allegories told of him and their meaning was that of greatness, and children would want to be him, wives would want to lie with him, men would learn to fear him.
He talked rather apathetically, and the others listened, each ear dutifully attentive. After he finished he studied them with eyes made from burning pitch, the only thing of finery embellished on a finger, was that of a diamond, bled crimson colour. A forever jewel, formed from pressure of years and years trapped, only to be made unbreakable, impossible, eternal.

A woman was brought forward, her hair black and stewed up, dirty as the nest of some animal. Her clothes were made from hemp and a greyish sheepskin patching. She was bleeding from a cut on her cheek, and she looked to wear the mask of determination, resentment and defiance.
She was made to kneel and an iron chain was fastened to her hand, linking her to a nearby, nailed down bedpost.
They ten men left, walking from the door and never looking back, their eyes wary and tired, one moored the pleasure of a sickly smile to his face and another laughed.
A soldier poured pitch over the woman, and she said nothing, no tear stained an oily cheek. Another, a knight in plate and chain threw a torch into the room, and slammed the door shut.
The song of screams carried them off to conquer that terrible night, where widows cried and orphans ran amidst the blackness.