The morning sun scorched the earth, sending wave after wave of heat hot enough to desolate the morale of even the most hearty soldier. The squadron trudged slowly onward, their destination not far now. Holding their weapons in their arms and provisions in their packs. Quinn Morrison led from the front. He was the leader of this group of 15. Ordering them around and making sure they were protected at all times. The were climbing a hill when Morrison stopped at the top. Peering over to look how much farther they had to go. He could see the watchtower of the base. As tiny as a toothpick in the distance.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ffcc">"Alright lads, Let's move! We'll be there by nightfall!"</span>With a yell in agreement, the men began to hustle. Running up the hill and traveling down it just as fast. Being careful not to trip on anything. The forest around them would keep them well hidden from the watchtower until they were close. This watchtower was critical to taking the land away from the savages. It was atop what many of the locals called sacred ground. The enemy was defending it to the last man. Once this stepping stone was cleared they would be mere days away from achieving victory in this pointless war. That's what this was to Morrison. Pointless. He had not joined the Queen's military to conquer lands in her name. He joined to protect his people from war. What was he doing in other people's lands, taking it away by force? Morrison shook the thoughts away as they walked through the forest.<br/><br/>They had reached the enemy encampment many hours earlier than they had anticipated. Another squadron had approached the base from the east, and one more from the west. They had completely surrounded them. They gave the men a few hours to choose to evacuate, or end up being killed. The enemy pleaded to move the battle elsewhere. They wouldn't fight here, but they couldn't let this land go either. They didn't listen to the enemy's demands and instead began the assault near sundown. It began with an invasion from the north and south entrances. Men flooding the camp, letting off bullets where they saw men. Bodies littering the earth in their wake. Men from both sides on the ground. In the end, only one group survived. They fought until their last man. Morrison set his gun down and looked around, taking in all the carnage. Why did this happen? All for some land? He was only 20 years old and leading a squadron of men to their deaths. Half of them were already dead, and half of those alive were wounded. The moon hung low in the sky, clouds scattered around as if it were going to rain soon. The men began moving the dead. In a few hours, all the bodies would be gone.<br/><br/>As the preparations were put in place, and a flag was raised in the Queen's name, the men broke out the alcohol. Hidden away in the camp, boxes upon boxes of drinks. Many drank to mourn the loss of their comrades, and some drank to the victory of the night. Others drank to forget the day, and a few drank to heal their inner wounds. Morrison sat alone on the roof of one of the buildings, his feet dangling over the ledge as he held a bottle. All to his lonesome overseeing the others in their respective groups. He took a swig of his drink and set it to the side. A strong gust of wind came, and his bottle spilled off the roof and to the ground.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ffcc">"Bloody hell,"</span>Morrison muttered as he looked down to the drink from his perch. The bottle had surprisingly not shattered as it hit the grass. He saw a shadow move across the ground and looked over to the origin. At the entrance of the camp was a figure. Huddled over as if walking with a large cane. Morrison eyed the figure carefully and noticed that a few of the men seemed to eye it as well. One man even walked over. Although Morrison couldn't hear what was going on, what occurred next got his attention rather quickly. The man got down to his knees. The figure looking down at him as he did so. His movements seemed strained, as if he was being forced against his will. The man reached into his holster and pulled out his pistol. The men each carried a Flintlock pistol. A secondary weapon to their primary firearm. He placed it to his temple, and Morrison's eyes widened as a single clap filled the air, silencing the other men and garnering their attention to the entrance. Some of the men stared, dumbfound as to what just occurred. Other's began to pick their weapons up and cautiously approach the figure. There was a noise that Morrison could hear. A faint growling. He looked around to see where it was coming from. It seemed to be right behind him, but nothing was there. He looked to his left and his right. He got up and began to make his way down the building.<br/><br/>When he came back to the ground where all the men were, gunshots began ringing in the air once more. This time, the men were shooting at each other. One after another, the men began to fall. One shot, two shots, three shots. The men were dropping like flies. Soon enough, only a handful remained. And the bullets kept coming. One pointed his gun at Morrison and right before the trigger was pulled, his body fell to the ground. The last one eventually took his own life as the first one did. Falling to his knees before pulling out his pistol and emptying the barrel in his head. Morrison looked around, wide eyed. What had just happened? Why did all the men just kill each other? Morrison saw the lone shadow of the figure once more and looked to it. The skies had cleared and the full moon lingered high in the sky now. As if it were moved. Morrison stared at this figure as it seemed to morph. Soon becoming a young beautiful woman. Resembling the natives of this land. She stared at Morrison with an anger in her eyes. In her hands was a staff as dark as a new moon. The woman's voice blasted in his head, causing Morrison to fall to his knees. He grabbed his ears in pain as the voice tore through his mind.<b><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4d4d">"</span></i></b><i><b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4d4d">You have defiled this sacred land with blood!"</span> </b></i>The voice held an anger which could not be explained in simple words. As if this woman had lost everything dear to her. Her people, her land, her life. She slowly stepped closer to Morrison. She was now standing right in front of him. She grabbed his head, her nails digging into the top of his skull and her thumb on the center of his forehead.<i><b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4d4d">"Your men have paid their price, but yours is yet to come."</span> </b></i>Her nails pressed harder into his head. If the pain surging through his brain wasn't already shutting him down, he would feel the blood beginning to drip out of his head due to her fingernails.<i><b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4d4d">"You shall never find peace. You shall never rest easy. You shall never be happy. Not even in sleep will you find tranquility. You shall be flooded with horrors as you delve deeper into slumber."</span></b></i>The woman seemed to screech in his ears. Morrison was convinced none of this was real. He had drank too much alcohol and passed out. This woman's lips were not moving, yet he could hear her. Soon enough the pain was too much to bear and his eyesight began to give out. She let go of his head, a fierceness in her eyes. Morrison fell to the ground and everything went black.<br/><br/>Morrison jolted up, sitting on the ground looking around quickly. He turned his head left and right and a sharp pain ripped through his neck. He grasped at the origin of the pain and groaned as he straightened up. That was when he noticed a wet sensation on his hair. He looked up and saw rain. Rain spilling everywhere. Where was he? Looking around Morrison could only see a few of the trees in the darkness of the forest. Unable to tell what was beyond those in his immediate sight. He slowly came to a stand. Looking around once more and seeing he was...alone. The bodies around him were gone. His men, the camp, everything. All he had with him was a pair of black slacks and a white shirt which was half in his pants and half hanging out. As if he were trying to get dressed for something. His shoes were missing and mud from the wet earth covered his feet. Something he was used to when walking through rain as a soldier. Mud would often get into their boots. Morrison ignored the squishing of the ground under his feet and followed the path in front of him, making his way to where ever it was taking him.<br/><br/>After twenty minutes Morrison came upon a building. An old run down mansion with broken windows and open walls. As if someone had begun deconstruction on the site. Maybe there was someone in there. Who knows? Morrison had not seen any buildings like this in these lands he was in before. Other than small villages with small buildings, and the occasional watchtower. Still suspicious about where he was, he pushed the broken door open and stepped inside. Other than the exterior damage, the inside was pretty well kept. Mostly clean of debris and dust. He looked into the room to the left. Reminiscent of a living room. One of the walls had collapsed inward, yet had been clean as if that was the intended design. Morrison walked back out of the room and went up the stairs. He came to a small hall with 3 rooms. He walked through the hallway and pushed the doors open peeking inside. The rooms were bare. He wondered what this place was. Why was it so odd? Where was everyone? Morrison eventually made his way down the stairs and walked out of the house back into the unknown. There was no sign of life. Maybe if he searched the forest, something would come up. Morrison began venturing out into the thickets.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="76" data-username="@Vestele" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/76/">@Vestele</a>