The Voice

The Village Boy

Eryndor's eyes gazed out at the rolling hills surrounding his village, the warm sun casting a golden glow over the thatched roofs of the huts. Life in Brindlemark was simple, yet rich in tradition and love. As a young boy, Eryndor spent his days playing in the nearby woods, learning the ancient stories of his people from the village elder, Thorne.

His parents, both skilled craftsmen, taught him the art of woodworking and weaving. Eryndor's hands were always busy, shaping wooden trinkets or helping his mother with the loom. The village was a tight-knit community where everyone looked out for one another, and Eryndor felt a deep sense of belonging.

But amidst the peace and tranquility, whispers of the outside world began to filter in – rumors of a growing darkness, of armies marching, and of a power that threatened to disrupt the balance of the land. Though the villagers tried to ignore it, the shadows loomed larger, waiting to snatch Eryndor from his idyllic life...

As the sun began to set, casting a warm orange glow over Brindlemark, Eryndor would often join his friends in the village square. They'd play games, tell stories, and laugh together, their joy infectious. Eryndor's smile could light up the entire square, and his laughter was a sound that brought people together.

maliki, the village elder, would often sit on the sidelines, watching the children with a warm smile. He'd tell Eryndor stories of the ancient heroes, bravery and honour, and of the delicate balance between nature and magic. Eryndor's eyes would widen with wonder, and he'd feel a sense of pride knowing he was part of this community.

But as the seasons passed, the whispers of darkness grew louder. Crops began to wither, and the skies would sometimes darken without warning. The villagers would gather in hushed conversations, their faces etched with worry. Eryndor's parents would exchange concerned glances, and he'd sense a growing unease.

One evening, as Eryndor helped his father in the workshop, he asked, "Father, what's happening? Why is everything changing?" His father's expression turned sombre, and he replied, "We're not sure, son. But we'll face it together, as a village."

Eryndor nodded, feeling a sense of reassurance. Little did he know, the shadows were closing in, and his life was about to change forever.

As the days passed, Eryndor noticed the villagers becoming increasingly restless. Some were preparing for the worst, stockpiling food and supplies, while others seemed oblivious to the growing danger. Eryndor's parents were among those preparing, their faces set with determination.

One night, Maliki gathered the villagers in the town square. His expression was grave, and his eyes seemed to hold a deep sorrow. "Friends, I fear the time has come to tell you the truth," he began. "The darkness that has been growing is not a natural phenomenon. It is a sign of a great evil stirring in the land."

The villagers murmured, exchanging worried glances. Eryndor felt a shiver run down his spine as Thorne continued, "We must prepare to defend ourselves, to protect our homes and our way of life."

The villagers began to discuss and argue, some calling for action, others for caution. Eryndor watched, feeling a sense of uncertainty. What did this mean for him, for his family, and for Brindlemark?

As the meeting dispersed, Eryndor's father approached Thorne, speaking in hushed tones. Eryndor strained to listen, but his father noticed and gently guided him away. "Not now, son," he said. "Let's get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day."

But Eryndor couldn't shake the feeling that tomorrow would bring more than just a long day. It would bring change, uncertainty, and a chance to prove himself.

As the night wore on, Eryndor couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. He lay in bed, listening to the distant howling of wolves and the creaking of trees in the wind. The village was quiet, but he knew that tomorrow would bring a new reality.

The next morning, Eryndor woke up to the sound of his parents stirring. His mother was already preparing breakfast, and her movements swift and efficient. His father was checking the doors and windows, making sure everything was secure.

"Eryndor, today we'll start preparing the village defences," his father said, his voice firm. "We'll work in teams to reinforce the walls and prepare for any eventuality."

Eryndor nodded, feeling a surge of excitement and purpose. He was ready to do his part.

As the day progressed, the village became a flurry of activity. People worked together, building barricades and gathering supplies. Eryndor's father taught him how to wield a sword, and he felt a sense of pride handling the weight of the blade.

But despite the determination and resolve, Eryndor couldn't shake off the feeling that they were running out of time. The darkness seemed to be closing in, and he wondered what lay beyond the village borders.

As the sun began to set, the villagers gathered once more in the town square. Thorne stood on the steps, his eyes scanning the crowd. "We've done what we can," he said. "Now, we wait. But I want you all to know that we'll stand together as a community, no matter what comes our way."

The villagers nodded, their faces set with determination. Eryndor felt a sense of pride and belonging. He knew that he was part of something bigger than himself, something worth fighting for.

But as the night fell, the darkness seemed to press in, like a living, breathing entity. Eryndor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He knew that the wait was almost over. The storm was coming.

As the night wore on, Eryndor's senses were on high alert. He stood on the village wall, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the torches that flickered in the wind. The air was heavy with anticipation, and he could feel the weight of the village's fate bearing down on him.

Suddenly, a faint rustling sound came from the trees beyond the village borders. Eryndor's heart quickened as he peered into the darkness, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. The rustling grew louder, and he could see movement in the shadows.

"Eryndor, get down!" his father whispered urgently, grabbing his arm and pulling him behind the wall.

Eryndor crouched down, his heart racing. The movement in the trees grew more pronounced, and he could see dark figures emerging from the shadows. They moved stealthily, their eyes fixed on the village.

The villagers readied their bows and arrows, their faces set with determination. Eryndor's father handed him a small dagger, his eyes locked on the approaching figures.

"Stay close to me," he whispered. "We'll face this together."

As the figures drew closer, Eryndor could see that they were unlike anything he had ever seen. Their skin was deathly pale, and their eyes seemed to burn with an otherworldly energy.

The villagers launched a barrage of arrows, but the figures seemed to absorb the blows, their movements unimpeded. Eryndor felt a chill run down his spine as the figures closed in, their eyes fixed on the village with an unblinking gaze.

The battle for Brindlemark had begun.

Eryndor's eyes gazed out at the horizon, his mind replaying the memories of Brindlemark. His village had survived countless battles, raids, and skirmishes, but none had ever posed a threat like Malakar. The warlord's armies had swept across the land, leaving destruction in their wake.

As the darkness closed in, Eryndor had been forced to flee, leaving behind the only life he knew. He hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to his parents, to tell Arin how much their friendship meant to him. The pain of that realization still lingered, a raw wound that refused to heal.

Eryndor's thoughts drifted back to the village, to the laughter and the warmth of the fireplaces. He wondered if his parents were still alive if Arin was safe. Not knowing was almost too much to bear.

The memories of Brindlemark haunted him, a bittersweet reminder of what he had lost. Eryndor's heart ached with longing, his spirit worn down by the weight of his journey. He knew he couldn't go back, not yet. But he held onto the hope that one day, he would return, and he would find the people he loved.