Crows love corn, but more, cadavers. The wax seal crumbled to blue dust, falling to the floor as the friar cleaned them. The regency-letter revealed a warm-felt greeting for the Old Jack, courtesy for the Old Knight who had come to the Countess's aid in perilous time. But the friar's eyes are looking for something that must not come to light. There are secrets held within the words, but there are many more ways to conceal them. The parchment itself was a thick piece of skin compared to the usually thinned out letters. The friar oft remembered how much the church was pleased with the resources available in Els. Once the friar visited the library of Els, and of course, the order there, and he couldn't forget. The wealth of the people there lies in their own lands, fertile soil and the people itself. People worked their fields, and till the earth. The outer side and inner side borders of Els were grain producing land. Herds of cattle; sheep, goat, horse, and cow, are among the fattest. The domain of Els is bountiful. There is no doubt about it. But what Elysian leatherworkers could do certainly impressed monks, scholars, and even nobles. They provide papers. Wooden pulp, linen, rags, and parchment. The Adelrend mountains provide neither mountain-worth veins of gold or silver but minerals for both craftworks and artworks. For artworks, it was the pigments. At the works of prominent artists, they found their own value above gold and transcends time through generations. He remembered the Order there had sent him a paint-box. He remembered the bright colours, but most of all, the brilliant hue of blue lazurite. The friar's eyes always fixed on them. But sure, he didn't lose focus of his present task. "Let's see what this particular letter hid," the friar said, playful as always. The regency-letter maybe sweet as it sounds in words, but the friar is more worried about what they may tell. When Lyle learned of this, he immediately changed his view upon nobles. Maybe his father knew too but chose to let him learn by the first-hand experience. He saw the friar cut one of the letter's corners. The friar's swift hands immediately arranged all kind of vials, powders, and concoctions above the rustic wooden table. He put the letter's cut under sets of test. "It's rare for Els to sent letters in blue wax," the friar spoke to him. "In case if you don't know, it means----" But the friar suddenly stopped. It's the long sound of the bell that rung from the top of the watchtowers. Both he and Lyle heard it. The bell tolled. So it rang long and solemn. One long sound then followed by another one. It was the standardized signal for pillaged settlements. The friar was unsure, but Lyle already went to the slit windows and looked afar. As he had predicted, on the fields were three horsemen galloping under a red flag. And the men below rushed their works. "Red flag," Lyle put in mouth what he saw. "Marauders." The friar's face went pale. He glanced at Lyle. "The letter can wait. Go." And Lyle didn't need his further command to rush down the stairs.

Two wrestled inside the hut. Although it was noon outside the two didn't mind. It was between the soft voice of flesh. What Garred feels is the thirst, craving for warmth and lust. Waves of pleasure assaulted him, strong, and stronger. He couldn't hold it any longer. He gave a final shove with all he had. The torrent of warmth. He released it all. He grinned wide. He panted with satisfaction before stepped backwards. "Still warm," he said to no one else. He satisfied himself, and that's what matters in his mind. The piercing daylight from the window revealed his stark naked lower body. His rod hung down, bent, and flaccid, with the tip already cleaned with a rag he found on the floor. He chugged down some wine from his own skin. He didn't think the girl would resist him that far. "Doesn't matter." He grinned. He glanced to the lifeless-doll. He doesn't need her anymore. When he opened the door, the whole village of Domee was already ablaze. The fire was roaring with thick black smoke. There was no scream, but laughter. Garred was pleased that he could found one girl to satisfy his needs on the same day he levelled a village. Eighty-nine, he counted. Less than half of them were young women, but it's the village head's daughter that he picked. Blue eyes, rare blonde hair. Maiden, unbesmirched. The men tried to hide them inside the granary. But his men left no stones unturned. Peasants with pitchforks and scythe can't hold long against a dozen archers. And their family can't keep their mouth in silence. The elders are slaught, together with the women and children but raped first. Some of the men preferred boys, but he put no mind to that. The men are quick with the spoils. The food they carried as much as they can, the gold they hid for deposits. Garred walked through the village's roads, passing through dead bodies. Some of the men are still searching the burned houses for hidden cache, something of values. The fire was burning but, it won't stop them. The village of Domee and its residents are no more. When they found nothing, they slaughtered the cattle and livestock. They took only the meat and hung them. They are quick with what they do. There's still, after all, a day before the local garrison will be able to be deployed. "Already done there?" a voice said. A man. "The village-head daughter?" "Burn the house." His voice is stern. "Didn't think she resists so much." "Aye. But the butcher's daughter is pretty good down there. Shame. She did a good job. Almost like doing it willingly." "Maybe it's just her father who wouldn't let anyone get close to her. Dead bodies tell no tales. You know the rules," he pressed. "I...I..I---" "Wally, don't make me do this to you, brother. Follow the rules or---" "Strangled her," the man quickly answered. He forced the images to rush back to his mind. "She's dead already." "Good." "Garred!!!" It was when some of the men called him. Three men wearing a leather cap and scale mail came to him. "We leave now I say! We're in a shithole, Garred. Guess what?" "What?" he asked indifferently. He asked again, uninterestedly, "scouts? Is that it?" "Yeah!" the other bared at him. "Brothers," he calmed them down. "We still have a day." "A day is enough to catch us up," Wally said. His eyes met Garred's. "They just came back from 'long-patrol'. The garrison soldiers? They're too weary to chase a group of marauders, one group. Domee is not different from Lommary. We heard of burning fields and robberies. There are many," he reminded them. "There are others, brother," he said. "Still, if I were you, I will not be risking it. Don't want my head removed from my neck." "Maybe you're right," he changed his tone, giving up. "We're returning. Carry everything you can and hide the weapons." The men ran to tell the others. "Time to leave, boys," the man said. It took them just a moment to gather the spoils and packing. The food; grains, rye, and everything grows the load into the wagons and the weapons, are hid beneath the stacks of hay. They doubled the armour with woollen clothing. They donned weary faces of travellers which often fooled people. Now, no one will suspect them as marauders. Garred throws a last glance upon Domee, and he watched the fire consume houses and cadavers inside. The village head's house burned just like a fireplace as it was a two storey house. He laughed before giving his horse a trot. But Garred failed to see the visage of a girl rise inside the fire, whom desperate to reach the door. She was naked, hurt, and bleeding. She saw Garred, and it carved deep into her memory as all turn to black. But no one saw that darkness had descended upon Domee. Death was coming, and crows feast upon the dead.