Micro Fiction: Field of Red

Baldor pulled his cloak closer to himself, the cold winds cut deep and he couldn't afford the energy required of shivering to keep himself warm. Glancing from one grizzly scene to the next, Baldor seemed to be looking for something among the carnage. The dead bodies of the slain had been cast far and wide over the valley. Gore crows were already feasting on the eyes of the fallen, plucking them free from their heads. Maggots were busy at their grisly work and ensured that there would be little left to remember the battle that took place. Armies of peasants used crude tools to wrench teeth from mouths, and to pull or cut hair from the heads of those who had died. They could sell them for a few copper at one of the cities, dentures or wigs were always in demand among those who could afford such things. Baldor shook his head and turned towards Fulred, a sturdy looking Briagothian.

BALDOR
"Even if he survived, which I highly doubt, we'll never find him. I'd of run and kept running, and I'm not nearly half the coward that he is."

FULRED
"If he's dead, I hope he died poorly. If he's alive..."

BALDOR
"He isn't, but I'm not going to search for his rotting corpse among the rest of the rabble. Sleep soundly, Fulred. The man didn't live through this. He couldn't have. Not him."

FULRED
"What do we do now? Do we continue to search for the others?"

BALDOR
"We head to the city of Daggermark. I have a "friend" there who might be able to assist us. When we arrive, just make sure you keep your blade close to your side."

Fulred closed his eyes before reaching down to place his hand on the hilt of the blade that was hanging from his belt. He knew all too well what those words meant, Daggermark was not going to be kind to them.