Sidestory #2 to Good Day Demise
Wrongway rides off into the night allowing his horse to take him towards home. It knows the way. As he rides Wrongway scans the sides of the road alert for any trouble that might come out of the woods. Riding along his mind goes back to that day as a boy when he found his father and mother brutally murdered in his home.
He remembers the sinking feeling he had in the pit of his stomach when he came into the clearing and saw the front door broken and sagging on its hinges. Running to the house he pulled up short as he saw his father's legs sticking out from under the kitchen table. Slowly entering the house, he found his mother tied to the bed, naked, obviously having been beaten. Her eyes were still open above the bloody gash in her throat. His father had been the lucky one, he had died quickly.
Looking around his house, he could see everything had been ransacked. The jar where his father had kept their savings, was broken in pieces on the floor. His mothers jewelry was gone. The few pieces of silver that had belonged to his grandparents was gone. Everything of possible value was gone, except the dagger his brother, Bjorg, had made for his father on his last birthday. The dagger with it's jeweled hilt was still protruding from his father's chest where it had pierced his heart.
Pulling the dagger from his father's chest, Wrongway drew the razor sharp blade across his own hand drawing blood. He placed his bleeding hand upon his father's chest and swore an oath to the good spirits to never rest until he caught the men who had done this to his family. Wiping off the dagger on his father's tunic, Wrongway placed it in his belt. He went outside, lit a torch, and set fire to his family home. Getting on his horse he set out for Britain to find his brother and tell him the news.
Pulling his cloak more tightly around his shoulders to block the evening chill, Wrongway rode in silence. Finally arriving at the Collective, he stables his horse and unlocks the iron grate to the house. Pulling off his boots at the door, he collapses in the first chair available, not bothering to undress or go up to bed. Within minutes, sleep takes him, but there is no peace. His dreams are haunted by visions of his mother and father.
Wrongway rides off into the night allowing his horse to take him towards home. It knows the way. As he rides Wrongway scans the sides of the road alert for any trouble that might come out of the woods. Riding along his mind goes back to that day as a boy when he found his father and mother brutally murdered in his home.
He remembers the sinking feeling he had in the pit of his stomach when he came into the clearing and saw the front door broken and sagging on its hinges. Running to the house he pulled up short as he saw his father's legs sticking out from under the kitchen table. Slowly entering the house, he found his mother tied to the bed, naked, obviously having been beaten. Her eyes were still open above the bloody gash in her throat. His father had been the lucky one, he had died quickly.
Looking around his house, he could see everything had been ransacked. The jar where his father had kept their savings, was broken in pieces on the floor. His mothers jewelry was gone. The few pieces of silver that had belonged to his grandparents was gone. Everything of possible value was gone, except the dagger his brother, Bjorg, had made for his father on his last birthday. The dagger with it's jeweled hilt was still protruding from his father's chest where it had pierced his heart.
Pulling the dagger from his father's chest, Wrongway drew the razor sharp blade across his own hand drawing blood. He placed his bleeding hand upon his father's chest and swore an oath to the good spirits to never rest until he caught the men who had done this to his family. Wiping off the dagger on his father's tunic, Wrongway placed it in his belt. He went outside, lit a torch, and set fire to his family home. Getting on his horse he set out for Britain to find his brother and tell him the news.
Pulling his cloak more tightly around his shoulders to block the evening chill, Wrongway rode in silence. Finally arriving at the Collective, he stables his horse and unlocks the iron grate to the house. Pulling off his boots at the door, he collapses in the first chair available, not bothering to undress or go up to bed. Within minutes, sleep takes him, but there is no peace. His dreams are haunted by visions of his mother and father.