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Hildmoor - memory of a sea of grass

Crows circled in the air, and the green fields of Hildmoor below lay in silent anticipation. The day was grey and grim, drizzle wet the swaying sea of crude grass and bent trees. Patches of those crooked trees lined the clearing, set in a landscape of lonely hills of grass. At the edge of sight a proud old forest stood, and behind it mountains erupted.

"There it is!" he whispered to himself, stalking beneath the strong trees in a hooded cloak. Carefully, he took an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back, and nocked it on his hunting bow, without ever taking the eyes of the proud deer standing idly some feet away. He had been hunting the majestic beast for days now. Its meat would feed his family for months. Suddenly, a loud sound, as if the air was audibly sucked in by some giant inhaling. The deer, frightened, bolted away behind some thickets, but its hunter was no longer interested. Open-mouthed, he stared upwards through the leaves. Liquid fire poured from the balloons overhead and laid the forest to ashes.

Later, the mercenaries came.

The memory faded.