The Chronicles of Raynor

Leovar watched on with firm eyes as his father turned back to his own lines and thankfully not wishing to fight alone, he slowly moved back towards his loyal following as though riding on a warm summer’s day. Mathus gave another forceful holler from his heavy horn and with it; the solid green and yellow wall that was Benoic’s army began to advance from the foot of Leovar’s hill.

            A heavy rattle of chain and plate announced the coming of death; the army was marching to the beat of its own footfalls under the afternoon sun. The fresh grass seemed to wilt in anticipation as the field was slowly down-trodden and churned by the constant advance. Benoic tore at his reigns as he stopped his horse dead, dismounted and moved a few feet towards the front ranks; throwing away his stirrups he pulled his long gleaming sword out from his saddle, took up his glistening shield and grinned wildly at Mathus.

Leovar followed his father’s battlefield position with his eyes but to his distaste, he was forbidden to fight by his mother; being the only heir and eldest child to the Queen of Raynor, she doted on him and would see no harm befalling him if she had her say. So the young boy was forced to watch on as flanking skirmishers ran ahead of the Raynorian lines. The enemy were getting so close now, it wouldn’t be long before the carnage began and Leovar was sitting as quietly as possible while the peace lasted; his solemn face surveying men of both sides that were destined to fight to the death as he watched.

Leovar’s mind churned with culminating philosophies each of his teachers had given him so far in his life and loyalty to any cause that was just and rightful would be his cause for life. He was not becoming a man for oppression or intolerance; he far preferred using his strength to protect the warmth of the sun, to inspire light and firm trust. In those respects he was becoming quite adept at leadership in his own right albeit in those simple and early days of no worries and relaxation.

Now looking to the centre of the Royal lines, he witnessed Benoic raise his sword high into the air as he prepared to order his men to their deaths:

“Honour in Life, Glory in Death!” he screamed with a frenzied thunder.

His army then roared in response before they all lunged forth into the onslaught. From that point on silence was the first casualty, remorse the second; the battle had finally begun.