A Crescendo of Cold and Flame

Light and dark. Sun and shadow. Fire and death. The silver obsidian blade glistened in the moonlight. As deadly as it was beautiful, Athesis held it up, straight and true, and he was blind to the night for a moment. Blind to his brothers who were dying, blind to the evil that walked, blind to the stench of death that hung over the night, as a pale grey mist would don a sunrise. The trees stood silent in their stead, watching the massacre. To his left a man lay dying, a wight stood over him, it’s blue eyes shining as it cracked open the brothers skull and drank his hot blood. To his left Eyreit was fending off the pale gray shadow with his own steel sword. Parry, cut, thrust, defend, parry, cut, thrust, defend, yet the shadow never tired. It’s own blade, neither solid nor translucent met every attack with a fierce defend. Eyreit’s own parry’s became slower, and his reach slowly withered, until, with a mighty thrust of the Other’s blade, he lay limp and cold within a pool of his own blood. Athesis saw his brothers attempting to use fire to stave off the dark God’s warriors, yet it was to no avail. For every wight that was engulfed in flames, a dozen more came charging out of the haunted forest behind it, for every silver shadow that was cut down by an obsidian blade, more came to take up the fight. “Back to Castle Black” he shouted, “Defend the wall, let not these foul creatures past!” Wether anyone heard, he did not know, as cold as the night had become, the silence that followed was deafening.