Ralph and the Pixie

Until Malina had come into his life, the only necessity he had known was an empty sort of subsisting, without any redeeming sense of purpose, goal or future. How ironic, that now that he had all of these things, that he would have to fight for them, perhaps at the cost of all he had to give. He though bitterly of the words, “die a happy man,” and considered the idiocy of such an utterance.

As the day wore on, the unnatural winter deepened. Heavy wet snow began to fall, sending up a concealing mist from the warmer earth. The effect was to make the defenders seem even fewer than they were: as one looked down the line to the left and right, less and less could be seen, as though more than just the resolve of the defenders was dissolving into thin air.

Ralph checked the strap on his shield, unnecessarily readjusting the buckle once more. The broadsword he carried at his back had been made by his own hand, out of the same material he had used to fashion arrowheads. It should have given him some degree of satisfaction to realize that all of the defenders now possessed weapons made by him, but his mind was distracted by the fears they all shared: What if they couldn’t hold the enemy back? And what if the enemy somehow found another way past them? There had been rumours of Goblins from the Outcasts, and it was well known that the Goblins had not come from this direction. And with this suspicion came the unthinkable: was Wel’adai truly safe?