Fantasy Short Story - 1 - Watchdog
The old man sits on a log at the edge of the encampment, the sound of his knife carving a small piece of wood. At his sides rest his packing as well as his blunt rusted blade. The only dim light coming from the hand rolled tobacco stick he's smoking, the orange glow of the tip coming and going.
*Shrk Shrk Shrk* The knife sculpt away.
The few young infantry and squires hurry when walking past the old man, avoiding his gaze. whether it was terror or disgust was unclear. After-all his very existence was a stain in the holy order.
His armor of leather and metal bits cobbled together is a stark contrast from the clean and gold trimmed armor Issued to the most noble, brave knights and paladins. what would otherwise blend in and help one survive now does the opposite.
"The Watchdog". That was his title, his name. Tales Circle around taverns and campfires, his majesty's right hand doing dirty work. The kind that makes your stomach twist and lose faith in the gods above.
*Shrk Shrk Shrk* The Knife Etch.
In the middle of the camp near the bonfire, is the hero. THE Hero. Golden armor, blond flowing hair, Holy sword at the hips. On a grand speech about anything and nothing but mostly about how great he was, and the soldiers ate it up. Some in awe and other looking at him as if he was a god himself.
A Lion of light and righteousness guided by the gods themselves, A beacon. The other was a dirty Mutt of blood and mud doing the king's bidding, a Pawn.
*Shrk Shrk Shrk* The Knife Reveals.















