A Grand Beginning

Civilization ends at the waterline. Beyond that, we all enter the food chain, and not always right at the top."

- Hunter S. Thompson

“I’m bleeding!” Denmark exclaimed, staring in wide-eyed horror at the scarlet rivulets of blood pumping from his leg.

“Forge be damned, I’m bleeding everywhere.”

Adrenaline jolted through his body giving him the strength to leap away from his attacker. He had the presence of mind to turn the motion into a spinning attack but he slightly misjudged the angle. The flat side of his blade connected solidly with the animal's head halting its rush and causing it to stumble before him. It was the opening he needed. Grunting he stabbed his sword through the throat of the creature, fatally wounding it and pinning it to the ground. Wincing in agony, he used the blade to lower himself to the ground beside the twitching body. He wheezed and coughed for a moment, catching his breath.

“Well,” he muttered through clenched teeth, "this has been a grand beginning.”

The odds of surviving out here alone were low enough, being out on the plains and bleeding into the dirt was going to make them far worse. The Southland scavengers tended not to trouble themselves over whether their meal was still breathing or not.

Denmark took a deep breath and began to take stock of his situation. He spotted his knapsack lying in a heap roughly twenty yards away from him. It must have been flung loose in the early stages of the ambush when he was being tossed about like a child’s toy.

He took a moment to compose himself and then examined his right leg. The tattered, bloody remains of his leather britches hung off the side. A vicious laceration ran down from his groin, three lurid parallel lines of open flesh snaking their way around the front of his thigh. Blood flowed freely from the wound, the rivulet pulsing slightly in time with his heartbeat. He was a seasoned soldier and had seen this type of wound a thousand times before. The sense of his own mortality pierced his heart and he had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm the panic that threatened to sweep him away in a cloud of shock.

He looked back at his knapsack and sighed. He was going to have to crawl over to it. The contents were not likely to save him but there was some tincture of opium he had been saving for later. It would certainly help take the edge off the stinging pain he felt seeping up through his consciousness, demanding attention.

With a grunt, he wrenched his sword loose from the fallen creature and began doggedly crawling towards his knapsack. The ground beneath his hands swayed with a sickening lurch. He was beginning to feel nauseous. Despite his best efforts, he felt his chest tightening as the exertion and continued loss of blood caused his body to enter the first stages of shock.

Twenty yards. Twenty long yards.

After what felt like an eternity of suffering he reached the crumpled bag. He collapsed beside it, taking huge gulps of air. His skin was covered with a thin film of sweat and was turning a pale shade of blue from the loss of blood. He opened the bag and rummaged around inside. Grabbing the small glass stoppered vial of laudanum he rolled onto his back and with some difficulty, opened the vial. He knocked back the contents with a sigh.

The tincture acted quickly. He felt his heart rate slow and sensed the searing pain drifting away from his body. In his delicate state, he imagined it as a gaunt, icy creature releasing him from its clutches.

As the soft twilight of unconsciousness settled over him, he heard the faint cackling of the approaching scavengers floating towards him, carried by the breeze.

“You'll find my flesh is far from tender,” he said, smiling wryly to himself.

"I hope you choke on my bones."

Something brushed against his cheek and he swiped it away in annoyance. A small ember blazed momentarily in the air in front of his face before melting away. Denmark looked up at the sky. Hundreds of thousands of tiny sparks were falling gently to the earth. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. From his earliest years, as an infant suckling at the breast of his wet nurse, he had listened in awe to the whispered tales of that rarest of omens. The Firefall. The legends told that it was a sign that the Gods, great beings who made their home deep within the Skyforge, were hammering out their weapons and armor upon the anvil of the Scorched Earth, preparing for war. The sparks generated by their efforts would fall upon the Earth, blessing those upon whom they fell with great wisdom and marking them for greatness.

The last thing he remembered as the fog of unconsciousness swallowed him was a sharp stinging pain as one of the embers settled on his left eye. The spark flared briefly as it seared into the soft tissue and lodged itself firmly in his cornea.