Prologue, Chapter 1: Briarheart
I was only seven when Markarth fell, in 4E 174. The guards had made it seem so safe just hours prior, as they had been doing for all of my life, but the moment the barbarians charged the gate the guards had been noticeably absent from the walls. The city of stone, a bronze and grey fortress nestled in the mountainside, was quickly bathed in a bright shade of crimson. Barbed swords and flint war axes flashed among groups of innocents. Nobles were cut down in seconds. The keep was captured within minutes, and the Jarl's head was produced on a spike for the defending citizens to gawk at as they fell lifeless to the ground. My family were among the corpses, having held their own against the Reachmen for what seemed an eternity, only to be crushed and burned by frenzied killers.
I watched of course, as all I ever cared about fell to corpses and ashes, and took it as any seven-year-old would. My sister had long fled the walls through the escape tunnel in the house, and only I remained to watch the destruction and weep. Bad choice.
A crazed man launched himself onto the balcony and observed me. Meanwhile, I observed him. The man was adorned in animal skins and human remains, with limbs and skulls hanging from a belt I could only hope wasn't a dried intestine. A makeshift axe hung to from his hand, crafted of twigs and flint. I wasn't scared by any of that. I stared at his face, the face of intelligence, even of a scholar. The man wasn't exactly strong, and seemed to lean on his axe every now and then as if he was wielding a cane. I thought of a man sharing his face and intelligence browsing a library somewhere, and considered a diplomatic approach to this scenario. Maybe I saw a man in that monster that day, but all hopes of a gentleman
were masked in blood and war paint.
The time for observation was over, as indicated by a slash to the face from his axe (luckily only a flesh would) and a kick in the head, before he proceeded to kick at the door to my home, hoping to find more innocents inside to slaughter, or even treasure to steal. I couldn't tell, for the man was muttering jibberish and jerking around manically. Fortunately his mind seemed to have diminished to a frenzied native from the scholar I had imagined he had once been; this mind kept him focused on removing the door long enough for me to run him through with the sword of my nearby deceased relative, so caked in blood that I couldn't tell who they were. If there is something that will stay with me until the day that I pass, it is my first kill.
I wouldn't forget the cry from the man, the gush of red from his spine, the look on his face as he rolled over and stared at his killer. I was trapped in that moment, watching as the head of a briar plant rolled from his lifeless chest, having been displaced by my strike. My chest filled with pride as my gut filled with disgust, and I was paralyzed by both.
A band of Reachmen climbed the balcony and stared at me, the seven-year-old killer sitting in the blood of their leader. They kneeled before him, looked at me and grinned. That was the last thing I remembered before the hilt of a sword was brought down on my head. I blacked out.
I awoke on a stone table, decorated with organs and bones. My head was still ringing, so the chants of the vile bird-like creatures around me were inaudible. One picked meticulously at a briar plant, while the other raised a blunt cleaver above my chest and screamed as it brought it down. I blacked out once more.
I read of this tradition years later.
The feller of the Briarheart
with strength or simple grace
rip their feeble human heart,
with heart of briar replace.
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Prologue, Chapter 1: Briarheart
I was only seven when Markarth fell, in 4E 174. The guards had made it seem so safe just hours prior, as they had been doing for all of my life, but the moment the barbarians charged the gate the guards had been noticeably absent from the walls. The city of stone, a bronze and grey fortress nestled in the mountainside, was quickly bathed in a bright shade of crimson. Barbed swords and flint war axes flashed among groups of innocents. Nobles were cut down in seconds. The keep was captured within minutes, and the Jarl's head was produced on a spike for the defending citizens to gawk at as they fell lifeless to the ground. My family were among the corpses, having held their own against the Reachmen for what seemed an eternity, only to be crushed and burned by frenzied killers.
I watched of course, as all I ever cared about fell to corpses and ashes, and took it as any seven-year-old would. My sister had long fled the walls through the escape tunnel in the house, and only I remained to watch the destruction and weep. Bad choice.
A crazed man launched himself onto the balcony and observed me. Meanwhile, I observed him. The man was adorned in animal skins and human remains, with limbs and skulls hanging from a belt I could only hope wasn't a dried intestine. A makeshift axe hung to from his hand, crafted of twigs and flint. I wasn't scared by any of that. I stared at his face, the face of intelligence, even of a scholar. The man wasn't exactly strong, and seemed to lean on his axe every now and then as if he was wielding a cane. I thought of a man sharing his face and intelligence browsing a library somewhere, and considered a diplomatic approach to this scenario. Maybe I saw a man in that monster that day, but all hopes of a gentleman
were masked in blood and war paint.
The time for observation was over, as indicated by a slash to the face from his axe (luckily only a flesh would) and a kick in the head, before he proceeded to kick at the door to my home, hoping to find more innocents inside to slaughter, or even treasure to steal. I couldn't tell, for the man was muttering jibberish and jerking around manically. Fortunately his mind seemed to have diminished to a frenzied native from the scholar I had imagined he had once been; this mind kept him focused on removing the door long enough for me to run him through with the sword of my nearby deceased relative, so caked in blood that I couldn't tell who they were. If there is something that will stay with me until the day that I pass, it is my first kill.
I wouldn't forget the cry from the man, the gush of red from his spine, the look on his face as he rolled over and stared at his killer. I was trapped in that moment, watching as the head of a briar plant rolled from his lifeless chest, having been displaced by my strike. My chest filled with pride as my gut filled with disgust, and I was paralyzed by both.
A band of Reachmen climbed the balcony and stared at me, the seven-year-old killer sitting in the blood of their leader. They kneeled before him, looked at me and grinned. That was the last thing I remembered before the hilt of a sword was brought down on my head. I blacked out.
I awoke on a stone table, decorated with organs and bones. My head was still ringing, so the chants of the vile bird-like creatures around me were inaudible. One picked meticulously at a briar plant, while the other raised a blunt cleaver above my chest and screamed as it brought it down. I blacked out once more.
I read of this tradition years later.
The feller of the Briarheart
with strength or simple grace
rip their feeble human heart,
with heart of briar replace.
PREVIOUS CONTENTS NEXT
