A re-write of the journal entry of Lt. Lars Krollos, one of only two survivors of the slaughter at Oak Tree Cross.

I have lost a bit of myself this day.  I rather important bit so it seems to me.  The part of me that keeps it all together; keeps reality from detaching from me no matter the horrors I witness.  I can still hear the baby crying.  I can feel the tears running down my cheek only to be redirected by the sticky blood splattered across my face.  Not my blood, no not my blood.  I’m fairly certain that I walked past the crying baby without much more than a dull stare.  The image of the child’s mother is burned into my mind though.  Her lifeless hand still resting on the child’s head as if to let it know that everything would be ok even as her other hand rested on a gaping wound in her neck in what was a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood.  I know her but I cannot recall her name.  I feel the tears but little else, my arms are numb and my sword drags behind, held in my hand by instinct alone.

 The orcs swarmed into the village as a crazed horde; their teeth gnashing and their spears and swords finding soft targets among the simple folk here. They reveled in the chaos, howling in their madness, as they ran their blood stained weapons through men, women and children without discrimination.  They seemed to be without end as they poured out of the darkness.  How many did I slay?  The ferocity of the battle leaves me with little detail.  I remember falling villagers and orcs, many of the orcs falling at my feet.  My sword worked in a blur of motion; training and instinct took over at some point when my natural limits should have long been exhausted.  One after another they fell to my blade yet I could not save my people.  The sun crests the horizon, mocking the devastation with its beauty, dawn reveals the slaughter.

The smell of smoke and death still reaches me as I fall to my knees.  Lifeless lumps of flesh, human and orc alike, litter the landscape.  There is no movement.  Still the baby cries, but in the distance now.  I have stumbled a great distance, trying in vain to find refuge from the nightmare.  As I stare blankly back across what was once my home there is a strangely welcome calm.  Death has claimed the battle field now.  I notice the slight gashes on my arms and legs and one across my chest but I feel no physical pain.  My mind struggles to hold on; it would be so easy to step into the blackness.  Perhaps I could hide there and forget.  I cannot.  Somewhere in the smoldering ruins a dead mother holds her child.  I force myself to my feet and once more stumble into the battlefield.

The dream, the memory, is always the same.