War is never ending, always looming. You can never let your guard down, even when things seem the brightest, for this world will take more than it offers.
I lived in a small town out on the country, far away from the struggles of power and ideologies; things that I, nor anyone else in my village, could care less about. Even so, war found its way to us. I didn’t understand how it came about, at the time, why those horrible men did what they did, why they just couldn’t leave us alone. But now I understand that they were a product of their time, a time of chaos and unrest. Even to this day, I don’t fully understand how the Order came to an end; giving up the power to the strong rather than the just.
Shortly after the fall of the Order, a Warlord came to our remote village, whose name I’ve forgotten. He was like any other marauder, oppressive and ruthless. Though, later in life, I’ve heard he was far from the worst… We weren’t treated as badly as could have been, I’ll admit, as we had two (disgusting) meals a day and was allowed a few leisurely hours to tend to our own. But in the end, we were slaves and we were expendable.
My father died before the unrest, leaving me and my mother to fend for ourselves. She died shortly after the occupation, however. Before her death, she’d all but given up as the light from her eyes slowly faded, leaving only a husk and an empty expression. I haven’t forgiven her, to this day, for leaving a young girl to the cruelties of the world. Fortunately, I was not like my mother and vowed to escape. I had to simply wait and let opportunity present itself.
Several weeks later, it happened.
The Horrors of Writing 