Smoke and ash billowed into the air. The old man watched in both horror and
fascination. Gone were the
houses, the quaint little shops, gone were his beloved horses. All that was
left was fire. Well, that wasn't all
that was left. A faint cry was heard among the smoldering ruins. Wincing,
the old man crawled towards it,
doing the best he could with his broken leg, now bleeding everywhere.
Finally, under a wooden shield, the
man discovered the source of the cries. It was a child, a baby, no more
than a year old. Tenderly the man
picked it up, cradling it until it ceased it's tears. He felt a pang of
sadness for the child. What would it do,
growing up in a world so cold and cruel as this one? Well, it would learn
to fight, the man thought bitterly.
It would learn to defend itself against monsters like the ones who had
destroyed the village. Sighing, the
man crawled away from the burning death, child in hand.