Hi! Noob here seeking to gain a presence. I'd been looking for feedback for some of my stories that I'm unsure of. This first one is an excerpt, a letter written by a mercenary making an important request. Violence and war crimes are implied, but not shown.
Siege of ValentiaTo his Royal Majesty, the shadow standing in the Light of the Ages.
All around the camp, from my camp, could be heard cries for rest, cries for peace from anguished souls waiting for release from the slow pain that bleeds them dry in the sweltering sun of a foreign land. Surrounding me is a nightmare symphony like in a village festival, a dance of prayers and pleas for death to strange gods whose names I don't recognize.
All that’s left are believers. All the rest have abandoned me, leaving me alone with the agonized revenants who lie on their backs in pain. This city, this Valentia had taken all of them, brought them despair, those who brought hope for victory.
When we first arrived by ship, we were informed that the other mercenary armies commissioned to siege Valentia were marching around the city, blocking any attempts to call for food or supplies. They were trying to starve them on the inside. For a few months, this had gone on and we were told until it became clear that a more belligerent solution was required.
Our band of Mercenaries was brought in to handle it. The Valentians were surviving with what must be hidden food stores, hidden water, mayhaps some aid from some outside helper. There was no other way short of divine intervention that allowed them to continue fighting, continue living.
Some of their men searched for points of ingress, places where they could fight their way through, waste tunnels, waterways, catacombs, each of them armed with too many cultists holding scourges and crossbows. When I first laid eyes on them I saw the face of death beckoning me to join him in those eyes.
The first sign of something awry was black billowing smoke rising in towers up to the sky. The second was the resistance put to our attack. We had anticipated a fight, not slaughter; they practically threw themselves at us.
After the first wave's bodies lay in pieces, nourishing the soil, the first sermon came in that most wretched of voices. To hear it is like the sound of one’s skull being crushed by a horse-pulled wagon, but listening to it was like drinking Ambrosia to those that understood.
We expected some of our own to falter and fail. There was a handful of us that I suspected held faith for the Hanged God and an even smaller handful held more faith in him than in whatever god made money. Every day more would turn on us and kill their brothers in arms in their sleep before making the sign of the rope and dying.
When just a few days ago, we numbered more than enough to take a city like Valentia, here, now we are barely enough to man the ships and make it back home. Night falls and fires burn from within the city, setting aglow the tallest buildings with orange firelight, almost seeming like they would break loose and burn the city down from the inside, crumbling its walls and allowing us to force ourselves inside and maybe make this entire trip worth the cost.
Alas, shrill cries of fear, and putrid squeals from the women and children of the city were just dreams. The sun would rise and more of my men would hear the sermon. I myself heard it after too long and every time I heard it I heard the most hideous voice shrieking at the top of her lungs at me in a language of pure gibberish. Not a pleasant sound.
I can't imagine what goes on in the minds of my men, seeing them walk around as if possessed and fight each other like tomorrow the world would be squeezed like a grape, first slowly as its juices squeeze out, trickling down the fingers, and then is crushed for good. That's how they went about their lives. I could hear the moaning of beasts wake me up at night and find only my men outside my tent, crazed out of their minds.
Excuse me if I've rambled like a poet too long. I've been a singer in my youth. It comes naturally to go on and on. The point is that at this juncture, we need a psychomancer. I've asked twice before and gotten nothing back. My ranks are starting to break. I don't know how much longer we can still hold out before whatever hides, festering, and burning in Valentia breaks out and attacks.
A psychomancer must come to our aid in these times. I, your humble servant, beg you. I have fought at your side during the campaign against the Castorians in the frigid wastes, at your behest I fought the fire-priestesses of the red river and delivered their smoking heads at your feet, and without my help, your victory over the continent would have been a vain memory. I write to you as your friend and loyal servant. Please deliver unto us, someone.
--Andruz the Bloody Bard
