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A very cool piece of work, crafted by the talented 
5thSun
5thSun_____________________________
It had only been a matter of time before the war reached her.
Gone were the superstitious fears about the unnatural antlers on her head, or the small spells she had secretly woven to get by.
With the war drawing closer, she was just one among many refugees, fighting with knives, claws, and teeth to survive another day.
They had been fourteen on the first day of their escape, among them a deserter, a bard with a magical necklace, a frightened young girl, and her mother, who had only one arm.
On the fourth day, the mother succumbed to a wound-fever that had sunk so deeply into her limbs that not even magic could cure it.
From then on, the gentle bard and Fenja became the little girl’s only guardians. She spoke less and less, clinging instead to hands or legs for comfort.
On the tenth day, they encountered soldiers bearing unfamiliar banners, pillaging.
Hiding was pointless. The deserter stepped to the front and gave the others a chance to flee.
Later, they returned to the scene, looking for their comrade, or at least for a body.
The gruff wolf lay on the ground, a few holes torn in his chainmail, his expression grim. A red smile beneath his mouth, one that felt impossibly out of place.
They buried him with his dented helmet as a marker but took his chainmail and his nicked sword, handing them to the red vixen, who knew how to wield both.
On the thirteenth day, riders passed by their camp at dusk.
Their banners were different, yet they rode straight into the cluster of animals and folk, trampling over glowing embers and defenseless refugees.
By the end, the bard was dead, his magical necklace hanging uselessly around his neck, a lance protruding from his belly.
The girl was among the dead as well, her chest a grotesque hollow where a horse’s hoof had crushed her.
Fenja took the necklace and the lovely ribbon the lonely girl had always worn, as a remembrance.
The five survivors buried their fallen and stripped the foreign riders’ corpses of anything useful.
The flesh of the dead horses and a few scraps of rations kept them fed for two more weeks.
Often, they had to take long detours, fend off starving wolves or feral dogs, and deal with wary bandits.
After a month, Fenja was alone.
Her legs felt endlessly tired.
Another skirmish had passed, and the last of her companions had died.
She didn’t even know where he had fallen, barely had the strength to search for him among the scattered spears.
Instead, she sat down beside a gnarled old tree, let her weapons fall, and cried, for the first time, now that there was no one left she had to be strong for.
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fantasy
Species Fox (Other)
Size 1787 x 981px
File Size 1.92 MB
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