Stolen Shepard

A bitter moon awaited, laughing wickedly as the guardian upon the fell became once more a brutish thing of myth and murder.

Coldly, cruelly, the night mocked the unwary traveler, harshly scorning its lamb-like trembling and quaking.

The dawn was long in coming; the sun clawing, dragging, fighting not to return to the night, to remain far from such a profane land.

The light only served to darken the cold, soulless shadows that danced and cavorted fiendishly upon the blood-blackened moor.

A bile-encrusted, spirit-stealing river flowed between them, protecting the one with its bubbling track, imprisoning the other in tasteless agony.

The grasses shuddered and whispered their dark secrets to each, eager to taste the bittersweet tang of blood and battle once more.

Still, the moon waited…