∴ A Cold Fury∴
You walk the once-beloved field in silent horror. Shouts fill the air around you, but the words seem obscured, echoing, as if in a dream. Wild-eyed survivors and healers push past, desperate to leave the scene that will never leave them. Already the ravens are gathering, ragged-winged harpies, doing the only thing they know how to do.
You walk between them, unhindered, removed, staring at the scarred land and the broken bodies. You used to play here, not so many years ago. A stick as a wooden sword, and your father’s cap slipping over your eyes. Now you stand in the same place, the same worn cap pulled over your brow, the same warlike urge swelling inside you – but it is not a childish notion of glory that drives you now. Only a simple, inglorious need for revenge.
At last your glassy gaze settles on the thing you came here seeking. A black hilt half-hidden beneath the bulk of a lifeless horse. Not bothering to hold your breath against the stench, you kneel down and tug it free. Black saltires. Braided copper wire. A broad blade, and a simple basket. It will suffice.
Turning the blade in your bloodstained hands, you note an inscription engraved on the blade: Furia. An ugly smile escapes you. Perhaps it will more than suffice.