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The stallion halted, rocks no longer flying beneath his hooves. I breathed in through my nose out through my chapped lips. I slid off my chestnut and lead him to the pasture, I unhooked the reins and walked away. I was without saddle.
I paced down the path way, the sun was rising slowly and eerily through the fog. I loved the smell of the misty air.
Stopping dead in my tracks I stared down the line of cottages. All dark. All alseep. Except for my home. I cower, and slowly make my way to the house towards the back and peek through the window, Mother and father bickered in the living room.
Lately the house hold has been stifled with thick tension, with executions happening more frequently, weekly stoning, and children being stolen from their homes and sold to the army, my parents have been angry. Terrified.
I was 11, on my 13th birthday I would be sold, not to the military like the boys, at age 12; but to the house of generation.
This was the biggest of the cottages, and located in between two mountains, over looking life on the small village.
Waeldestone was dead center a circle of mountains and waterfalls. Often I would sneak out at night and bareback my Stallion, Robin, and we would venture out together. To outsiders we seemed peaceful and glorious, to everyone else we knew only fear and pure agony.
Yesterday I watched as my dearest friend Adam was tied to a lamp post in the center of town and flogged until he bled to death. He had simply handed a pregnant married women some bread, she had been mugged, and he payed for her lunch. It was considered a courting gesture and he was killed. The women was giving a successful abortion, and stoned to death last night.
We simply watched as a fellow neighbor was murdered, and then went inside for supper. My parents and brother made small talk while I writhed in my chair. Although female, I was born a fighter, and our concils injustice struck me mad, and my father was third in charge. I hated him for standing by this violence.
I snapped from my gaze and watched as my father stood from his chair and slapped my mothers pale face where she had stood afront him.
She fell to the floor, he kicked her stomach repeatedly. She begged to stop, he'd kill the baby. Baby? Had mother gotten pregnant outside of the generation home? This was a crime, punishable by... Death.
I burst through the door and slide my blade from out of the sheath. I then saw my brother bleeding out on the stone floor, and my mother plead me to leave. I would not leave her for dead. I would not become a slave to these people! To this society strangling it's village members! I bounded towards my father, he stopped kicking and stared at me. I raised the blade.
